' 


AN 


INTRODUCTION 


TO   THE    STUDY   OF 


SHAKESPEARE. 


BY 


HIRAM    CORSON,   LL.D., 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  IN  THE  CORNELL 

UNIVERSITY, 


BOSTON: 

D.   C.   HEATH   &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 
1889. 


9 


Copyright,  1889, 
BY  HIRAM  CORSON. 


TYPOGRAPHY  BY  J.  S.  GUSHING  &  Co.,  BOSTON. 


PREFACE. 


THE  present  work  is  an  attempt  to  indicate  to  the  student  some 
lines  of  Shakespearian  study  which  may  serve  to  introduce  him 
to  the  study  of  the  Plays  as  plays.  No  one  line  is  carried  out  to 
any  extent ;  but  enough  is  presented,  it  is  hoped,  to  enable  the 
student,  with  the  additional  aid  of  such  easily  accessible  sources 
as  are  noted,  to  extend  the  several  lines  of  study  indicated. 

The  commentaries  presented  on  Rorneo  and  Juliet,  King  John, 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  and  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  aim  chiefly  to  present  the  points  of  view  which  are 
demanded,  me  judice,  for  a  proper  ^appreciation  of  Shakespeare's 
general  attitude  toward  things,  and  his  resultant  dramatic  art. 
The  moral  spirit  with  which  he  worked,  as  distinguished  from  a 
moralizing  spirit,  it  is  all-important  to  appreciate.  His  Plays 
surpass  all  those  of  the  contemporary  dramatists  in  their  moral 
proportion  —  in  the  harmony  which  they  exhibit  with  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things — in  their  truthfulness  in  respect  to  the  fatalism 
of  overmastering  passion.  Herein  consists  their  transcendent 
educating  value.  To  come  into  the  fullest  possible  sympathy 
with  this  moral  proportion,  with  this  harmony  and  truthfulness, 
should  be  the  highest  aim  of  Shakespearian  culture. 

The  textual  study  of  the  Plays  is  abundantly  provided  for  by 
numerous  annotated  editions,  such  as  Rolfe's,  Hudson's,  the 
Clarendon  Press,  etc.  These  scholarly  editions  will  not  soon  be 
superseded  by  others  having  the  same  general  purpose. 

HIRAM   CORSON. 


; 


CONTENTS. 

I  — 

PAGES 

INTRODUCTION  (Shakespeare  in  general:  his  personal  history;  his 

contemporary  reputation;  features  of  his  dramatic  art;   etc.)      .         3-24 
THE  SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY    .........      25-31 

THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO  (the  dedicatees,  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke  and  the  Earl  of  Montgomery;  the  dedicators,  John 
Heminge  and  Henry  Condell;  the  authors  of  the  Commenda- 
tory Verses,  etc.)  ................  32~47 


^THE  CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  PLAYS  ............      48-50 

SHAKESPEARE'S  VERSE  .................      51-82^ 

/"   DISTINCTIVE  USE  OF  VERSE  AND  PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS     .      83-98' 
THE  LATIN  AND  THE  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS  OF  SHAKESPEARE'S 
ENGLISH,  AND  THE  MONOSYLLABIC  VOCABULARY,  IN   THEIR 
RELATIONS  TO  THE  INTELLECTUAL,  THE  EMOTIONAL,  AND  THE 
DRAMATIC      ..................    99-111 

-]   ROMEO  AND  JULIET   .................  112-144 

^THE  COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET     ........  145-157 

KING  JOHN      ...................  158-175 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      .............  176-193 

r:     HAMLET  .....................  194-222 

THE  WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH     ...........  223-243 

LADY  MACBETH'S  RELATIONS  TO  MACBETH  m  ........  244-251 

*  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA  ...............  252-315 

JOTTINGS  ON  THE  TEXT  OF  HAMLET  ...........  3*6-357 

MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES      ...............  358-377 

EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS  ...............  379-397 


AN  INTRODUCTION   TO    THE    STUDY 
OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


INTRODUCTION, 


ON  the  verso  of  the  title-page,  and  facing  the  first  page  of  the 
Preface,  of  James  Orchard  Halliwell-Phillipps's  "  Outlines  of 
the  Life  of  Shakespeare,"  is  a  woodcut,  representing  the  scattered 
bits  of  foundation  wall  which  remain  of  Shakespeare's  house,  in 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  known  as  New  Place.  In  the  opening  of 
the  Preface,  the  author  remarks,  with  a  touch  of  pathos,  "the 
remains  of  New  Place,  a  partial  sketch  of  which  is  engraved  on 
the  opposite  leaf,  are  typical  of  the  fragments  of  the  personal  his- 
tory of  Shakespeare  which  have  hitherto  been  discovered.  In  this 
respect  the  great  dramatist  participates  in  the  fate  of  most  of  his 
literary  contemporaries,  for  if  a  collection  of  the  known  facts  relat- 
ing to  all  of  them  were  tabularly  arranged,  it  would  be  found  that 
the  number  of  the  ascertained  particulars  of  his  life  reached  at 
least  the  average.  At  the  present  day,  with  biography  carried  to 
a  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess,  and  Shakespeare,  the  idol  not 
merely  of  a  nation  but  of  the  educated  world,  it  is  difficult  to 
realize  a  period  when  no  interest  was  taken  in  the  events  of  the 
lives  of  authors,  and  when  the  great  poet  himself,  notwithstanding 
the  immense  popularity  of  some  of  his  works,  was  held  in  no  gen- 
eral reverence.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  actors  then  occu- 
pied an  inferior  position  in  society,  and  that  in  many  quarters  even 
the  vocation  of  a  dramatic  writer  was  considered  scarcely  respec- 
table. The  intelligent  appreciation  of  genius  by  individuals  was 
not  sufficient  to  neutralize  in  these  matters  the  effect  of  public 
opinion  and  the  animosity  of  the  religious  world  ;  all  circumstances 
thus  uniting  to  banish  general  interest  in  the  history  of  persons  con- 


4  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

nected  in  any  way  with  the  stage.  This  biographical  indifference 
continued  for  many  years,  and  long  before  the  season  arrived  for  a 
real  curiosity  to  be  taken  in  the  subject,  the  records  from  which 
alone  a  satisfactory  memoir  could  have  been  constructed  had  dis- 
appeared. At  the  time  of  Shakespeare's  decease,  non-political 
correspondence  was  rarely  preserved,  elaborate  diaries  were  not 
the  fashion,  and  no  one,  excepting  in  semi-apocryphal  collections 
of  jests,  thought  it  worth  while  to  record  many  of  the  sayings  and 
doings,  or  to  delineate  at  any  length  the  characters,  of  actors  and 
dramatists,  so  that  it  is  generally  by  the  merest  accident  that 
particulars  of  interest  respecting  them  have  been  recovered." 

But  meagre  as  our  knowledge  remains  of  the  external  life  of 
Shakespeare,  after  all  the  untiring  researches  of  the  last,  and  more 
especially  of  the  present  century,  we,  nevertheless,  thanks  to  those 
researches,  possess  a  kind  of  knowledge  quite  as  desirable  as  any 
knowledge  of  his  personal  history,  desirable  as  that  is  —  more  so 
than  that  of  any  other  great  author  in  the  world's  literatures.  The 
material  for  this  knowledge  was  collected  by  Dr.  C.  M.  Ingleby,  and 
published  in  1874,  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Shakespeare's  Centurie 
of  Prayse  ;  being  materials  for  a  history  of  opinion  on  Shakespeare 
and  his  works,  culled  from  writers  of  the  first  century  after  his 
rise,"  that  is,  from  1591,  the  2yth  year  of  the  poet's  life,  to  1693. 
These  materials  are  far  more  abundant  than  any  who  have  not 
made  a  special  study  of  the  subject,  and  who  hold  the  traditional 
opinion  that  little  or  nothing  has  been  delivered  of  Shakespeare 
by  his  contemporaries,  and  the  two  generations  immediately  suc- 
ceeding his  death,  would  be  apt  to  suppose.  The  Index  to 
Authors  cited,  contains  116  names;  many  of  them  being  those  of 
prominent  writers  of  the  period  covered  by  the  work.  Several 
additions  have  been  made  to  these,  in  the  2d  edition,  revised 
by  Lucy  Toulmin  Smith,  and  published  by  the  New  Shakspere 
Society,  1879.  The  "Centurie  of  Prayse  "  furnishes  "  both  positive 
and  negative  evidence  as  to  the  estimation  in  which  Shakespeare 
was  held  by  the  writers  of  the  century  during  which  his  fame  was 
germinating;  viz.,  1592-1693.  .  .  .  The  testimonies  bear  witness 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

to  subjective  opinions,  preparing  the  way  for  the  objective  judg- 
ment which  has  seated  Shakespeare  on  the  throne  of  poets." 

We  really  know  more  of  Shakespeare  than  we  know  of  any  other 
author  of  the  time,  either  in  English  or  in  European  literature,  who 
was  not  connected  with  state  affairs.  The  personal  history  of  a 
mere  author,  and  especially  of  a  playwright,  as  a  dramatic  author, 
whatever  his  ability,  was  frequently  called,  with  no  influence  at 
Court,  was  not  considered  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  recorded 
in  those  days,  when  the  Court  was  everything,  and  the  individual 
man  without  adventitious  recommendations,  was  nothing. 

Already  in  1598,  when  Shakespeare  was  but  34  years  of  age,  a 
clergyman,  Francis  Meres,  educated  at  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, in  a  work  entitled  "  Palladis  Tamia,"  ranked  Shakespeare 
with  the  greatest  poets  and  dramatists  of  Greece  and  Rome.  He 
would  hardly  have  done  this  if  Shakespeare  was  so  obscure  and  so 
little  estimated  at  the  time  as  to  cause  such  a  judgment  as  he 
expresses,  to  be  laughed  at.  Meres,  as  his  book  shows,  was  a  man 
of  great  scholastic  learning ;  and  scholastic  learning  in  those  days 
meant  a  reverential  estimate  of  the  great  classics  of  Greece  and 
Rome. 

Higher  still  is  the  testimony  to  his  greatness  borne  by  Ben 
Jonson,  in  his  lines  in  the  ist  Folio  :  — 

To  the  memory  of  my  beloved,  the  Author  Mr.    William  Shake- 
speare:  and  what  he  hath  left  us. 

To  draw  no  enuy  *  (Shakespeare)  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  Booke,  and  Fame  : 

While  I  confesse  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  Man,  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much. 

**Tis  true,  and  all  mens  suffrage.     But  these  wayes 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise  : 


* '  To  draw  no  envy,'  etc.,  certainly  does  not  mean  what  the  editor  of 
Brome's  "  Five  New  Plays,"  1659  (To  the  Reader,  p.  4),  imputes  to  it;  as  if 
Ben  thought  to  lower  Shakespeare  by  extravagantly  praising  him.  He  meant 


INTRODUCTION. 

For  though  the  Poets  matter,  Nature  be, 

His  Art,  doth  gine  the  fashion.     And,  that  he* 
Who  casts  f  to  write  a  liuing  line,  must  sweat, 

(such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 
Vpon  the  Muses  anuile :  turne  the  same, 

{And  himself e  with  it}  that  he  thinkes  to  frame  ; 
Or  for  the  lawrell,  he  may  gaine  a  scorne, 

For  a  good  Poet's  made,  as  well  as  borne. 
And  such  wert  thou.     Looke  how  the  fathers  face 

Lines  in  his  issue,  euen  so,  the  race 
Of  Shakespeares  minde,  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  torned,  and  trite-filed  lines :  { 
In  each  of  which,  he  seemes  to  shake  a  Lance, § 

As  brandisfft  at  the  eyes  of  Ignorance. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Auon !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appeare, 
And  make  those  flights  i>pon  the  bankes  of  Thames, || 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,^[  and  our  lames ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  Hemisphere 

Aduanfd,  and  made  a  Constellation  there! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Starr  e  of  Poets,  and  with  rage** 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  e  the  drooping  Stage] 
Which,  since  thy  flight  fro  hence,  hath  mourn"* d  like  night, 

And  despaires  day,  but  for  thy  Volumes  light. 


*  Man.  f  Casts  (in  his  mind),  thinks,  purposes. 

J  "  As  Epius  Stolo  said,  that  the  Muses  would  speake  with  Plautus  tongue, 
if  they  would  speake  Latin :  so  I  say  that  the  Muses  would  speak  with  Shake- 
speares fine  filed  phrase,  if  they  would  speake  English."  —  Francis  Meres, 
"  Palladis  Tamia,"  1598. 

§  An  evident  play  on  the  name  of  Shakespeare.  So  in  Thomas  Bancroft's 
"  Two  Bookes  of  Epigrammes,  and  Epitaphs,"  1639,  No.  1 19,  To  Shakespeare  : 

"  Thou  hast  so  us'd  thy  Pen,  (or  shocke  thy  Speare) 
That  Poets  startle,  nor  thy  wit  come  neare." 

||  Bankes  of  Thames,  on  which  the  Globe  Theatre  stood. 
*f  Eliza,  Queen  Elizabeth. 

**  Rage  and  influence  are  used  here  in  their  astrological  senses :   chid?  and 
cheerc  refer,  respectively,  to  rage  and  influence. 


INTRODUCTION.  g 

Ben  Jonson  was  not  a  man  given  to  excessive  praise  of  others  : 
he  was,  in  fact,  very  chary  of  his  praise,  as  great  egotists  generally 
are ;  and  he  was  the  greatest  egotist  of  his  time.  He  certainly 
would  not  have  indulged  in  praise,  however  sincerely  he  could 
have  done  so,  which  would  have  been  regarded  as  merely  perfunc- 
tory and  conventional.  The  lines  have  a  ring  of  unquestionable 
sincerity.  And  they  are  remarkable  lines.  Eveiy  time  I  read 
them,  they  seem  more  remarkable  then  they  ever  did  before.  The 
line,  "  He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time,"  has  been  generally 
understood  to  express  Shakespeare's  universality.  But  what  is 
properly  meant  by  universality,  is,  perhaps,  not  always  understood. 
Ruskin  has  noted  it  as  "a  constant  law  that  the  greatest  men, 
whether  poets  or  historians,  live  entirely  in  their  own  age,  and 
that  the  greatest  fruits  of  their  work  are  gathered  out  of  their  own 
age.  Dante  paints  Italy  in  the  i3th  century;  Chaucer,  England 
in  the  141)1;  Massaccio,  Florence  in  the  i5th;  Tintoretto,  Venice 
in  the  i6th;  —  all  of  them  utterly  regardless  of  anachronism  and 
minor  error  of  every  kind,  but  getting  always  vital  truth  out  of  the 
vital  present.  If  it  be  said  that  Shakespeare  wrote  perfect  his- 
torical plays  on  subjects  belonging  to  the  preceding  centuries,  I 
answer,  that  they  are  perfect  plays  just  because  there  is  no  care 
about  centuries  in  them,  but  a  life  which  all  men  recognize  for  the 
human  life  of  all  time ;  and  this  it  is,  not  because  Shakespeare 
sought  to  give  universal  truth,  but  because,  painting  honestly  and 
completely  from  the  men  about  him,  he  painted  that  human  nature 
which  is,  indeed,  constant  enough,  a  rogue  in  the  i5th  century 
being,  at  heart,  what  a  rogue  is  in  the  iQth  and  was  in  the 
1 2th;  and  an  honest  or  a  knightly  man  being,  in  like  manner, 
very  similar  to  other  such  at  any  other  time.  And  the  work  of 
these  great  idealists  is,  therefore,  always  universal ;  not  because  it 
is  not  portrait,  but  because  it  is  complete  portrait  down  to  the 
heart,  which  is  the  same  in  all  ages  :  and  the  work  of  the  mean 
idealists  is  not  universal,  not  because  it  is  portrait,  but  because  it 
is  half  portrait,  —  of  the  outside,  the  manners  and  the  dress,  not  of 
the  heart.  Thus  Tintoret  and  Shakespeare  paint,  both  of  them, 


INTRODUCTION. 

For  though  the  Poets  matter,  Nature  be, 

His  Art,  doth  gitte  the  fashion.     And,  that  he,* 
Who  casts  f  to  write  a  lining  line,  must  sweat, 

(such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 
Vpon  the  Muses  anuile:  turne  the  same, 

{And  hints  elf e  with  it}  that  he  thinkes  to  frame ; 
Or  for  the  lawrell,  he  may  gaine  a  scorne, 

For  a  good  Poet's  made,  as  well  as  borne. 
And  such  wert  thou.     Looke  how  the  fathers  face 

Lines  in  his  issue,  euen  so,  the  race 
Of  Shakespeares  minde,  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  torned,  and  tme-filed  lines  :\ 
In  each  of  which,  he  seemes  to  shake  a  Lance, ,§ 

As  brandish?t  at  the  eyes  of  Ignorance. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Auon !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appeare, 
And  make  those  flights  vpon  the  bankes  of  Thames, || 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,*j[  and  our  lames ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  Hemisphere 

Aduanfd,  and  made  a  Constellation  there  I 
Shine  forth,  thou  Starr  e  of  Poets,  and  with  rage,** 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  e  the  drooping  Stage', 
Which,  since  thy  flight  fro  hence,  hath  mourned  like  night, 

And  despaires  day,  but  for  thy  Volumes  light. 


*  Man.  t  Casts  (in  his  mind),  thinks,  purposes. 

\  "  As  Epius  Stolo  said,  that  the  Muses  would  speake  with  Plautus  tongue, 
if  they  would  speake  Latin :  so  I  say  that  the  Muses  would  speak  with  Shake- 
speares fine  fried  phrase,  if  they  would  speake  English."  —  Francis  Meres, 
"  Palladis  Tamia,"  1598. 

§  An  evident  play  on  the  name  of  Shakespeare.  So  in  Thomas  Bancroft's 
"Two  Bookes  of  Epigrammes, and  Epitaphs,"  1639,  No.  119,  To  Shakespeare : 

"  Thou  hast  so  us'd  thy  Pen,  (or  shocke  thy  Speare} 
That  Poets  startle,  nor  thy  wit  come  neare." 

||  Bankes  of  Thames,  on  which  the  Globe  Theatre  stood. 
^f  Eliza,  Queen  Elizabeth. 

**  Rage  and  influence  are  used  here  in  their  astrological  senses :   chide  and 
cheere  refer,  respectively,  to  rage  and  influence. 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

Ben  Jonson  was  not  a  man  given  to  excessive  praise  of  others  : 
he  was,  in  fact,  very  chary  of  his  praise,  as  great  egotists  generally 
are ;  and  he  was  the  greatest  egotist  of  his  time.  He  certainly 
would  not  have  indulged  in  praise,  however  sincerely  he  could 
have  done  so,  which  would  have  been  regarded  as  merely  perfunc- 
tory and  conventional.  The  lines  have  a  ring  of  unquestionable 
sincerity.  And  they  are  remarkable  lines.  Eveiy  time  I  read 
them,  they  seem  more  remarkable  then  they  ever  did  before.  The 
line,  "  He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time,"  has  been  generally 
understood  to  express  Shakespeare's  universality.  But  what  is 
properly  meant  by  universality,  is,  perhaps,  not  always  understood. 
Ruskin  has  noted  it  as  "  a  constant  law  that  the  greatest  men, 
whether  poets  or  historians,  live  entirely  in  their  own  age,  and 
that  the  greatest  fruits  of  their  work  are  gathered  out  of  their  own 
age.  Dante  paints  Italy  in  the  131!!  century;  Chaucer,  England 
in  the  i4th;  Massaccio,  Florence  in  the  151)1;  Tintoretto,  Venice 
in  the  i6th;  —  all  of  them  utterly  regardless  of  anachronism  and 
minor  error  of  every  kind,  but  getting  always  vital  truth  out  of  the 
vital  present.  If  it  be  said  that  Shakespeare  wrote  perfect  his- 
torical plays  on  subjects  belonging  to  the  preceding  centuries,  I 
answer,  that  they  are  perfect  plays  just  because  there  is  no  care 
about  centuries  in  them,  but  a  life  which  all  men  recognize  for  the 
human  life  of  all  time ;  and  this  it  is,  not  because  Shakespeare 
sought  to  give  universal  truth,  but  because,  painting  honestly  and 
completely  from  the  men  about  him,  he  painted  that  human  nature 
which  is,  indeed,  constant  enough,  a  rogue  in  the  i5th  century 
being,  at  heart,  what  a  rogue  is  in  the  ipth  and  was  in  the 
1 2th;  and  an  honest  or  a  knightly  man  being,  in  like  manner, 
very  similar  to  other  such  at  any  other  time.  And  the  work  of 
these  great  idealists  is,  therefore,  always  universal ;  not  because  it 
is  not  portrait,  but  because  it  is  complete  portrait  down  to  the 
heart,  which  is  the  same  in  all  ages  :  and  the  work  of  the  mean 
idealists  is  not  universal,  not  because  it  is  portrait,  but  because  it 
is  half  portrait,  —  of  the  outside,  the  manners  and  the  dress,  not  of 
the  heart.  Thus  Tintoret  and  Shakespeare  paint,  both  of  them, 


I O  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

simply  Venetian  and  English  nature  as  they  saw  it  in  their  time, 
down  to  the  root ;  and  it  does  for  all  time  ;  but  as  for  any  care  to 
cast  themselves  into  the  particular  ways  and  tones  of  thought, 
or  custom,  of  past  time  in  their  historical  work,  you  will  find  it 
in  neither  of  them,  nor  in  any  other  perfectly  great  man  that  I 
know  of." 

We  may  take  Ben  Jonson's  estimate  of  Shakespeare,  not  only 
as  perfectly  sincere  on  his  part,  but  as  representing  the  opinion  of 
the  great  poet  by  the  best  judges  of  the  time. 

Mr.  Gerald  Massey,  in  his  "  Secret  Drama  of  Shakespeare's 
Sonnets,"  etc.  1872,  p.  528,  remarks  that,  "  Harvey's  lusty  reveille 
and  Ben  Jonson's  eulogy  notwithstanding,  it  is  quite  demon- 
strable that  Shakespeare's  contemporaries  had  no  adequate  con- 
ception of  what  manner  of  man  or  majesty  of  mind  were  amongst 
them.  We  know  him  better  than  they  did." 

That,  perhaps,  though  said  with  so  much  assurance,  is  question- 
able. The  fact  must  not  be  overlooked,  however  ungracious  it 
may  be  to  the  patient  and  laborious  delvers  in  Shakespearian  lore, 
that  much  of  the  study  devoted  to  Shakespeare,  in  these  days,  con- 
sists largely  of  a  peeping  and  botanizing  that  are  really  not  essenr 
tial  to  a  full  appreciation  of  his  dramatic  power,  which  is,  after  all, 
the  one  great  thing  needful.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  there 
are  many  mere  scholars  at  the  present  day,  whose  Shakespearian 
learning,  extensive  and  thorough  as  it  may  be,  in  respect  to  edi- 
tions, and  texts,  and  readings,  and  the  commentary  which,  during 
the  last  hundred  and  fifty  years  and  more,  has  gathered  around 
Shakespeare,  as  the  desert  sands  around  the  Egyptian  sphinx, 
does  not  help  them  much  to  a  higher  appreciation  of  this  power ; 
other  things  being  equal,  they  would  have  quite  as  much  without 
it.  I  would  not  depreciate  this  kind  of  learning ;  "  may  it  mix 
with  men  and  prosper  ! "  but,  in  many  cases,  it  does  not  justify 
scholars,  when  passing  opinions  on  the  contemporary  apprecia- 
tion of  Shakespeare,  in  saying,  as  Mr.  Massey  says,  that  the  men  of 
his  time  had  no  adequate  conception  of  what  manner  of  man  or 
majesty  of  mind  were  amongst  them,  and  that  we  know  him  better 


INTR  OD  UC  TION.  1 1 

than  they  did.  He  should  have  stated  in  what  respects  we  know 
him  better  than  they  did.  In  some  respects  we  do.  That  he  was 
not  appreciated  in  certain  directions  as  he  is  now,  is  undeniable ; 
but  that  he  was  even  popularly  appreciated,  in  his  own  day,  in  a 
dramatic  direction,  and  that,  too,  to  an  even  fuller  extent  than  he 
is  now,  is  equally  undeniable.  It  is  not  improbable  that  the  peo- 
ple who  attended  the  Globe  Theatre,  even  the  inferior  sort,  were 
more  susceptible,  got  more  of  the  real  thing,  than  the  ordinary 
attendants  of  theatres  in  our  days,  when  so  much,  too,  is  addressed 
to  the  eye  which  was  not  so  addressed  in  Shakespeare's  time,  but 
had  to  be  imagined.  Now  our  stage  carpentry  leaves  nothing  to 
be  imagined.  We  shut  off  imagination  in  earliest  childhood,  in 
having  our  children's  dolls  made  to  squeak  when  they  are 
squeezed,  and  to  say  mamma,  and  to  creep  along  the  floor,  moved 
by  a  wound-up  spring  in  the  stomach.  The  rag  doll  was  much 
better,  as  it  gave  scope  to  a  child's  imagination,  and  children 
loved  it  more  on  that  very  account. 

There  must  have  been  very  superior  acting  in  Shakespeare's 
time.  And  the  great  impersonator,  in  his  own  time,  of  the  lead- 
ing characters  in  his  Plays,  Richard  Burbadge,'  the  poet's  life-long 
friend,  must  have  had  his  valuable  guidance  in  his  impersonations. 
And  these  impersonations  must  have  been  adequately  appreciated. 
There  are  abundant  evidences  of  a  general  susceptibility,  in  the 
times  of  Shakespeare,  hardly  inferior  to  that  which  the  Greek  peo- 
ple must  have  possessed  in  the  best  days  of  their  drama ;  a  sus- 
ceptibility which  the  growth  of  general  and  "  useful"  knowledge, 
and  a  more  rigid  conventionalism  in  society,  have  done  much  to 
deaden. 

It  is  quite  impossible  that  any  contributions  can  be  made  to  our 
present  knowledge  of  the  external  life  of  Shakespeare  :  and  with 
that  limited  knowledge  we  must  rest  content;  especially  as  an 
infinitely  better  knowledge  is  within  our  reach.  We  can  drop  the 
questions  as  to  what  Shakespeare  did  as  a  boy  and  a  young  man ; 
as  to  whether  he  were  a  butcher-boy,  or  a  schoolmaster,  or  a  law- 
yer's clerk,  or  what  not.  How  his  soul  must  have  been  attuned, 


1 2  1NTROD  UCTION. 

is  an  infinitely  higher  question  —  a  question,  too,  which  can  be 
answered  with  greater  certainty  than  can  the  other  and  less  im- 
portant questions  as  to  how  he  was  outwardly  occupied  as  a  boy 
and  a  young  man.  It  is  a  question,  in  fact,  which  can  be  abso- 
lutely answered.  "The  soul,"  says  George  H.  Calvert,  in  his 
'  Shakespeare  :  a  biographic  aesthetic  study,'  "  while  laying  the 
foundations  of  greatness,  keeps  its  own  counsel ;  and  what  it  had 
been  doing  and  preparing  is  only  revealed  by  the  completed  work. 
The  Tempest,  and  Lear,  and  Julius  Caesar  tell  us,  and  tell  us  with 
the  peal  of  resounding  clarions,  that  Shakespeare  was  a  wonderful 
child,  and  from  them,  and  only  from  them,  can  this  be  learnt ;  so 
that  we  now  know  about  th~  child  William  what  his  own  father 
and  mother  had  no  inklin^  of"  (pp.  25,  26).  t 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  impersonality  of  the  Plays.  They 
are,  indeed,  wonderfully  impersonal  in  one  sense,  namely,  that 
each  and  every  character  speaks  and  acts  from  the  standpoint  of 
his  own  personality ;  but  they  are,  at  the  same  time,  the  most 
autobiographical  compositions,  in  the  very  highest  sense  of  the 
word,  that  have  ever  been  produced.  No  one  who  has  communed 
with  them  for  years,  can  have  any  doubt  of  this ;  can  doubt  that 
the  benign  aura  exhaled  from  all  the  Plays  was  infused  into  them 
from  the  glorious  nature  of  their  author  —  a  nature  more  fully  in 
harmony  with  the  soul  of  things  than  has  ever  been  exhibited  by 
any  other  of  the  sons  of  men  of  whom  we  have  record. 

It  has  been  well  said,  and  the  idea  has  been  eloquently  ex- 
panded, by  Whipple,  that  "  the  measure  of  a  man's  individuality 
is  his  creative  power ;  and  all  that  Shakespeare  created,  he  indi- 
vidually included."  * 

Could  we  have  possibly  known  more  of  the  real  man  Shake- 
speare, the  real  man,  more  of  that  immanent  something,  that 
mystery  of  personality,  that  "  innermost  of  the  inmost,  most  inte- 
rior of  the  interne,"  as  Mrs.  Browning  designates  the  mystery  of 


*  See  "  The  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth."     By  Edwin  P.  Whipple, 
Boston:    1869.     pp.  36  et  seq. 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  1 3 

personality,  of  "the  hidden  Soul,"  —  which  is  projected  into,  and 
constitutes  the  soul  of  the  plays  —  could  we,  I  say,  have  possibly 
known  more  of  this,  than  we  know  from  his  Plays,  even  if  he  had 
written  for  us  his  own  biography,  as  Alfieri,  or  St.  Augustine,  or 
Goethe,  wrote  his,  or  even  if  he  had  had  a  Boswell  to  record  his 
life  as  minutely  as  "  sleek  wheedling  James  "  recorded  Samuel 
Johnson's  ?  Could  we,  indeed,  have  known  as  much  of  the  real 
man  ?.s  we  now  know?  Would  not  a  full  record  of  the  man's 
outer  life,  with  all  the  short-comings,  distortions,  obliquities,  and 
imperfections  of  judgment,  and  prejudices  in  one  direction  and 
another,  which,  as  a  human  production,  would  necessarily  have 
marked  it,  even  if  it  had  been  writte;>  by  a  personal  and  intimate 
friend,  and  that  friend  the  best  cond  $ioned  to  appreciate  him, 
have  tended  rather  to  obscure  the  real  man,  as  he  is  breathed 
forth  from  the  Plays  and  the  Sonnets,  than  to  reveal  him  more 
distinctly?  There  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  such  would  have 
been  the  result. 

Shakespeare  came  into  the  world  at  a  time  the  most  favorable 
in  human  history  for  the  exercise  of  great  dramatic  genius.  No 
great  genius  was  ever  more  favored  than  he  by  the  circumstances  of 
time  and  place.  "  His  was  an  age  full  of  dramatic  elements  ;  rich 
in  character  and  passion ;  one  of  transition  from  old  to  new  con- 
ditions of  society,  and  containing  the  peculiarities  of  both ;  one  in 
which  all  the  depths  of  human  nature  had  just  been  stirred,  and 
its  strongest  passions  revealed ;  and  in  which  society  had  not  yet 
arrived  at  that  calm  uniformity  of  manners  which  has,  perhaps, 
weakened  our  sympathy  with  the  expression  of  strong  passion."  * 

But  these  favoring  circumstances  did  not  make  the  genius  of 
Shakespeare ;  that  was  something  entirely  independent  of  them. 
They  only  stimulated  it  into  activity,  and  determined  the  mode  j 
of  its  manifestation.     The  physiology,  so  to  speak,  of  great  works  j 


*  "  The  Influence  of  Foreign  Literature  on  English  Literature."  By  Rev. 
James  Byrne,  M.A.  (Dublin  Afternoon  Lectures  on  Literature  and  Art. 
3d  Series.) 


14  INTRODUC  TION. 

of  genius,  can  be  explained,  to  some  extent,  by  the  circumstances 
of  time  and  place  —  but  not  their  essential  life.  That  must  come 
from  the  personality  of  the  author ;  and  that  personality  is  a  mys- 
tery which  philosophy  cannot  reach. 

Favored  as  Shakespeare  was  by  the  circumstances  of  his  time, 
he,  in  spite  of  mere  scholarship  and  learning,  was  the  best  edu- 
cated man  that  ever  lived ;  and  by  "  best  educated,"  should  be 
understood,  that  his  faculties,  intellectual  and  spiritual,  especially 
the  latter,  and  all  that  enter  into  a  personality,  had  the  fullest,  and 
freest,  and  most  harmonious  play.  Of  no  man  in  the  history  of  the 
race  can  it  be  said  that  he  attained  to  a  completer  command  of 
his  faculties  than  did  Shakespeare.  And  this  is  why  it  may  be 
said  that  he  was  the  best  educated  man  that  ever  lived,  and  most 
completely  realized  De  Quincey's  definition  of  a  great  scholar : 
"  not  one  who  depends  simply  on  an  infinite  memory,  but  also  on 
an  infinite  and  electrical  power  of  combination ;  bringing  together 
from  the  four  winds,  like  the  angel  of  the  resurrection,  what  else 
were  dust  from  dead  men's  bones,  into  the  unity  of  breathing 
life." 

"  He  of  a  temper  was  so  absolute, 
As  that  it  seemed,  when  nature  him  began, 
She  meant  to  show,  all  that  might  be  in  man."  * 

Out  of  this  complete  nature  proceeded  that  ethical  system,  that 
sense  of  moral  proportion,  which  all  the  Plays  exhibit  more  or  less 
distinctly. 

Shakespeare  understood  the  meaning  of  true  education  as  com- 
pared with  mere  learning ;  and  it  appears  that  he  came  to  this 
understanding  very  early.  He  no  doubt  voiced  his  own  convictions 
in  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  A.  I.  Sc.  i.  55-93.  Biron  asks  : 

What  is  the  end  of  study?  let  me  know. 

King.   Why,  that  to  know,  which  else  we  should  not  know. 
Biron.   Things  hid  and  barr'd,  you  mean,  from  common  sense? 
King.   Ay,  that  is  study's  godlike  recompense. 


*  Dray  ton's  "  The  Barons'  Wars,"  ed.  of  1619. 


INI  'R  OD  UC  TION.  I  5 

Biron.   Come  on  then ;  I  will  swear  to  study  so, 
To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know : 
As  thus,  —  To  study  where  I  well  may  dine, 

When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid  ; 
Or,  study  where  to  meet  some  mistress  fine, 

When  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid : 
Or,  having  sworn  too  hard-a-keeping  oath, 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth. 
If  study's  gain  be  thus,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that,  which  yet  it  doth  not  know  : 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  will  ne'er  say,  no. 

King.   These  be  the  stops  that  hinder  study  quite, 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 

Biron.   Why,  all  delights  are  vain  ;  and  that  most  vain, 
Which,  with  pain  purchased,  doth  inherit  pain : 
As,  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book. 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth  ;  while  truth  the  while 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look  : 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile  : 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 

And  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep-search'd  with  saucy  looks  : 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star, 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights, 

Than  those  that  walk,  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 
Too  much  to  know  is,  to  know  nought  but  fame ; 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name. 

Shakespeare  must  have  felt  his  superiority  to  the  merely  learned 
men  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  and  must  soon  have  dis- 
covered that  he  drank  from  fountains  of  which  they  knew  nothing. 

.It 


1 6  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

It  is  because  he  was  the  best  educated  man  that  ever  lived  that 
he  is  the  greatest  of  the  world's  human  teachers,  and  will  continue 
such  until  a  greater  than  he  shall  arise.  When  that  will  be,  is, 
perhaps,  more  remote  than  the  time  which  Ruskin  fixed  for  another 
Turner.  A  young  Scottish  art-student  of  his,  as  Ruskin  himself 
tells  us,  once  asked  him,  after  being  praised  for  his  work,  "  Do 
you  think,  sir,  that  I  shall  ever  draw  as  well  as  Turner?  "  Ruskin 
replied,  "  It  is  more  likely  you  should  be  made  Emperor  of  all  the 
Russias.  There  is  a  new  Emperor  every  fifteen  or  twenty  years, 
and,  by  a  strange  leap,  and  fortunate  cabal,  anybody  might  be 
made  Emperor.  But  there  is  only  one  Turner  in  500  years,  and 
God  decides,  without  any  admission  of  auxiliary  cabal  what  piece 
of  clay  his  soul  is  to  be  put  in." 

In  the  whole  history  of  the  race,  so  far  as  we  know  it,  there  has 
been  but  one  Shakespeare ;  and  the  extent  of  that  history  will 
perhaps  be  repeated,  before  another  appears  who  will  recover  the 
staff  which  he  broke  and  buried  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth,  and 
the  book  which  he  drowned  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 
when  he  abjured  his  wondrous  magic. 

The  study  of  his  works,  in  its  highest  form,  could  be  made,  if 
properly  pursued,  to  contribute  to  the  stimulating,  strengthening, 
and,  what  is  most  important  of  all,  marshalling  into  more  or  less 
co-operative  action,  the  moral,  intellectual,  emotional,  analytic,  and 
synthetic  powers.  It  is  especially  the  co-operative  action  of  all  our 
faculties  which  Shakespeare  demands  of  us,  for  his  best  apprecia- 
tion, and  it  is  in  this  that  his  educating  power  especially  consists. 
I  speak  of  course  of  a  true  study  of  Shakespeare,  of  Shakespeare 
as  the  master-tfr/w1/  of  the  race  ;  and  such  study  means,  the  grow- 
ing towards,  I  will  not  say  the  growing  up  to  (that  is  quite  impos- 
sible), the  growing  a  little  way  towards,  the  manifold,  complex,  all- 
comprehensive  soul-movement  of  the  artist  —  a  movement  which 
carries  with  it,  thought,  emotion,  imagination,  fancy,  humor,  wit, 
pathos  —  a  movement,  in  short,  in  which  the  entire  personality  is 
brought  into  play.  This  is  what  I  mean  by  Shakespeare's  being 
the  master-2x\\s>\.  of  the  race ;  for  no  other  artist,  either  of  ancient 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  I  / 

or  modern  times,  ever  worked  with  such  a  complete  and  harmo- 
nious co-operation  of  all  the  powers  inherent  in  the  human  soul. 

"  O,  mighty  poet !  "  exclaims  De  Quincey,  at  the  conclusion  of 
his  subtle  analysis  of  the  art-purpose  of  the  knocking  at  the  gate, 
after  Macbeth  has  murdered  his  King,  "  O,  mighty  poet !  Thy 
works  are  not  as  those  of  other  men,  simply  and  merely  great 
works  of  art ;  but  are  also  like  the  phenomena  of  nature,  like  the 
sun  and  the  sea,  the  stars  and  the  flowers,  —  like  frost  and  snow, 
rain  and  dew,  hail-storm  and  thunder,  which  are  to  be  studied  with 
entire  submission  of  our  own  faculties,  and  in  the  perfect  faith  that 
in  them  there  can  be  no  too  much  or  too  little,  nothing  useless  or 
inert  —  but  that,  the  further  we  press  in  our  discoveries,  the  more 
we  shall  see  proofs  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where 
the  careless  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  accident." 

Shakespeare  was  of  course  perfectly  well  acquainted  with  the 
classical  unities  of  action,  time,  and  place,  the  first  only  of  which 
(action) ,  is  an  absolute  dramatic-art  principle ;  the  others  were 
originally  due  to  the  constitution  of  the  Greek  drama.  In  The 
Tempest,  he  has  strictly  observed  them,  more  strictly  than  they 
are  observed  in  some  of  the  ancient  dramas — in  "The  Suppliants" 
of  Euripides,  for  example,  in  the  "Trachiniae  "  of  Sophocles,  or  the 
"  Heauton-timoroumenos  "  (the  Self-Tormentor)  of  Terence.  The 
period  of  time  covered  by  The  Tempest  is  but  little  more  than 
that  required  for  the  stage  performance.  The  time,  as  noted  by 
Prospero  and  Ariel,  is  about  four  hours.  Shakespeare  has  also 
strictly  observed  the  unities  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors.  The  scene 
is  confined  to  Ephesus,  and  the  whole  time  of  the  dramatic  action 
is  comprised  in  one  day,  ending  about  5  P.M.*  But  in  The  Winter's 
Tale,  which  was  composed  about  the  same  time  as  The  Tempest 
(and  these  two  Plays  were  probably  his  last),  he  has  utterly  dis- 
regarded the  unities  in  an  actual  sense,  but  he  has  nevertheless 


*  See  "  A  Time-Analysis  of  the  Plots  of  Shakspere's  Plays,"  by  P.  A.  Daniel 
(Transactions  of  the  New  Shakspere  Soc.,  1877-9.     Series  I.  Part  II.  pp.  117 


1 8  INTK  OD  UCTION. 

moulded  the  heterogeneous  elements  of  which  the  Play  is  com- 
posed, into  "  the  unity  of  breathing  life  "  —  the  only  unity  which, 
in  itself  considered,  is  worth  anything  in  Art. 

A  system  of  time  and  place,  especially  of  time,  that  was  suited 
to  the  narrower  range  of  the  ancient  drama,  was  not  suited  to  the 
vastly  wider  range  of  the  modern  romantic  drama ;  and  Shake- 
speare, whose  genius  ever  rose  above  arbitrary  law  and  authority, 
and  became  law  and  authority  to  itself,  had  recourse  to  an  expe- 
dient, worked  out  a  dramatic  time-system  of  his  own,  and  accord- 
ing to  tins  system,  as  has  been  shown,  he  constructed  most  of  his 
Plays,  t  It  might  be  characterized  as  a  system  of  time-perspective, 
by  which,  when  it  is  demanded  by  dramatic  necessity,  a  long  period 
of  time,  filled  with  many  events,  is  made  to  impress  as  short,  and 
a  short  period,  as  long.  The  sagacious  critics  to  whom  the  dis- 
covery and  exposition  of  this  system  of  time-perspective  were  due, 
were  the  Rev.  Nicholas  John  Halpin  (a  clergyman  of  the  English 
Church,  and  a  graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin),  and  Professor 
John  Wilson  (Christopher  North).  Each  claimed  the  discovery 
as  his  own,  and  there  is  no  evidence  that  either  was  indebted  to 
the  other,  or  to  any  one  else.  But  Mr.  Hatpin's  exposition  of  it, 
is  by  far  the  fullest  and  clearest.  He  shows,  with  great  subtlety, 
that  Shakespeare,  in  his  Plays,  realizes  in  its  fullest  potential  sense, 
the  canon  of  the  Roman  Critic  —  ut  pictora  poesis  ("  Ars  Poetica," 
v.  361).  Professor  Wilson  first  made  known  what  he  calls  his 
"  astounding  discovery,"  in  the  5th  and  6th  parts  of  "  Dies  Boreales," 
which  appeared  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  for  Nov.  1 849,  and  April, 
1850,  applying  his  theory  to  Macbeth  and  Othello.  Mr.  Halpin 
was,  without  question,  the  earlier  discoverer  of  this  system  of  time- 
perspective,  by  many  years ;  but  he  had  made  it  known  only  to  a 
few  friends,  and  did  not  publish  his  Time- Analysis  of  the  Merchant 
of  Venice  until  after  Professor  Wilson's  first  paper  appeared  in 
Blackwood  for  Nov.  1849.  But  he  fully  established  the  priority 
of  his  own  discovery.* 


*  See  his  letter  addressed  to  the  Editor  of  Blackwood's  Magazine,  dated 
Dublin,  Nov.  12,  1849. 


Of 

UNTTF  tt. 

INTRODUCTION  19 

The  article  entitled  "  Dramatic  Time,"  in  the  "  Shakespeare 
Key,"  by  Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  occupying  180  fine- 
type  8vo  pages,  presents  an  exhaustive  collection  of  the  passages  in 
all  the  Plays  which  elucidate  the  time-scheme  upon  which  Shake- 
speare worked.  There  is  certainly  no  art- feature  of  the  Plays  more 
deeply  interesting  or  more  worthy  a  careful  study.  Professor  Wil- 
son's Double-Time  Analyses  of  Macbeth  and  Othello,  and  Mr. 
Halpin's  Time-Analysis  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  should  first  be 
thoroughly  understood  before  studying  the  article  in  "The  Shake- 
speare Key."  They  have  been  reprinted  in  the  New  Shakspere 
Society's  Transactions,  1875-6,  pp.  349-412,  and  edited  by  Dr. 
C.  M.  Ingleby. 

Another  feature  of  Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Art  to  which  the 
student's  attention  should  be  given,  and  which  contributes  to  t 
what  may  be  called  the  dramatic  perspective,  or  in  other  words, 
constitutes  the  still  background  to  what  is  dramatized,  is  the  _nar- 
rated  elementof  the  Plays,  by  which  is  meant  all  that  is  told  or 
described  by  the  characters  in  the  Plays,  instead  of  being  sceni- 
cally  or  dramatically  represented  to  the  audience.  This  feature 
is  an  extremely  interesting  subject  of  study.  Of  course  we  find 
such  an  element  in  all  the  dramatic  literature  of  the  time,  and, 
indeed,  of  all  time.  It  is  unavoidable.  The  Romantic  Drama, 
with  its  rich  variety  of  elements,  and  its  wide  scope,  especially 
demanded  it.  But  no  other  dramatist  of  the  time  has  employed 
this  told-element  with  an  equal  artistic  skill,  for  the  reason  that 
Shakespeare  was  the  greatest  master  of  dramatic  perspective.  In 
mapping  out  a  play,  he  must  have  considered  what  he  would 
bring  into  the  foreground  through  dramatization,  and  what  he 
would  throw  into  the  background  through  narration  on  the  part 
of  his  characters.  Artistic  symmetry  demanded  this ;  and  it  was 
also  necessary  in  order  to  secure  effects  which  would  be  weakened 
by  dramatically  representing  certain  things.  For  example,  in  The 
Winter's  Tale,  it  might  be  supposed  that  the  reconciliation,  toward 
the  end  of  the  drama,  of  the  two  kings,  Leontes  and  Polixines  (so 
long  parted  by  reason  of  the  unfounded  jealousy  of  Leontes)  and 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

the  identifying  of  the  shepherdess  Perdita  as  King  Leontes'  own 
daughter,  should  be  dramatized.  These  incidents  have  great 
dramatic  capabilities.  But  they  are  only  related  by  eye-witnesses, 
in  the  2d  Scene  of  the  5th  Act,  the  reason  for  which  is  readily 
noted.  The  reconciliation  of  the  two  kings,  and  the  identifying 
of  Perdita,  come  immediately  before  the  true  denouement  of  the 
drama,  which  we  have  in  the  3d  and  last  Scene  of  the  5th  Act, 
where  Paulina  shows  to  the  two  kings,  and  to  Perdita,  Florizel,  and 
attendants,  the  putative  statue  of  Hermione,  which  turns  out  to  be 
the  living  Hermione  herself.  A  scenic  representation  of  what  is 
related  in  the  penultimate  scene  of  the  Play,  would  be  most  inar- 
tistic, as  it  would  seriously  weaken  the  effect  of  the  crowning 
incident  of  the  drama  —  the  reanimation  and  restoration  to  hus- 
band and  daughter,  of  the  lovely,  noble,  and  long-enduring  Her- 
mione. But  an  inferior  artist  could  hardly  have  resisted  the  temp- 
tation to  represent  scenically  the  impressive  incidents  which  are 
related  in  the  2d  Scene. 

Again,  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  when  Shylock  learns  that  Jes- 
sica has  run  away  with  a  Christian,  and  carried  off  two  sealed  bags 
of  ducats,  and  a  rich  store  of  jewels,  in  his  rage  and  despair,  he 
goes  about  the  streets  of  Venice  followed  by  hooting  boys.  If  all 
this  were  scenically  represented,  instead  of  being  described,  as  it 
is  by  Salanio,  in  a  dozen  lines,  in  the  8th  Scene  of  the  2d  Act,  it 
would  weaken  Shylock's  appearance  in  the  next  Scene  but  one,  the 
ist  of  the  3d  Act,  where  he  meets  with  Salanio  and  Salarino,  and, 
after  they  go  out,  is  driven  almost  to  desperation  by  the  news  which 
Tubal  brings  him.  Furthermore,  the  poet  must  have  felt  that,  in 
representing  scenically  what  Salanio  describes,  he  would  be  heap- 
ing too  much  indignity  on  the  leading  character  of  the  Play,  in 
advance  of  the  main  business  of  the  action,  The  poor  fellow  is 
treated  badly  enough  as  it  is.  But  if  he  had  been  in  the  hands  of 
almost  any  other  dramatist  of  the  time,  that  dramatist  would  prob- 
ably have  made  the  most  possible  out  of  the  incidents  which  are 
merely  related  in  Shakespeare's  Play,  and  thus  kept  in  the  back- 
ground. We  should  have  had,  most  likely,  a  scene  in  which  poor 


INTR  OD  UC  TION.  2 1 

Shylock  was  pelted  by  the  hooting  boys  with  sticks  and  stones, 
and  insulted  with  outrageous  epithets.  ^ 

Shakespeare's  use  of  narration  in  his  Dramas,  has  been  treated  I 
by  Professor  Delius,  in  two  Papers  read  before  the  New  Shak-  ! 
spere  Society,  and  published  in  its  Transactions  for  1875-6.  He 
traces  what  he  calls  the  Epic  or  Narrative  elements,  in  about  25  of 
the  Plays,  and  shows  their  artistic  bearings,  and  also  how,  in  some 
cases,  they  were  determined  by  the  nature  of  the  stage  properties 
in  Shakespeare's  day,  and  the  necessities  of  the  theatre.  A  careful 
study  should  be  made  of  these  two  papers.  They  will  help  to  a 
new  insight  into  the  poet's  workmanship.  It  is  more  important, 
far  more  important,  to  get  at  the  secrets  of  the  poet's  dramatic 
effects,  at  the  skilful  management  of  the  dramatic  action  than 
it  is  to  study  the  Plays  as  embodying  philosophic  ideas.  They 
should  not  be  studied  as  closet  plays,  but  as  plays  written  ex- 
pressly for  representation  on  the  stage.  When  we  read  them,  we 
should  read  them  with  the  stage  before  the  mind's  eye ;  otherwise 
we  read  them  from  a  standpoint  other  than  the  artist's  own.  If 
we  regard  them  as  arenas  for  philosophical  disquisition,  as  some 
commentators  have  done,  we  do  not  treat  them  fairly,  because  we 
lose  sight  of  their  real  character.  «•* 

Another  means  of  effective  expression,  most  skilfully  employed  \ 
in  the  Plays,  is  Contrast,  of  which  Shakespeare  was  a  great  master,  1 
and  of  which  he  was  evidently  fond.  .**j«"J 

The  extent  to  which  the  high  and  the  low,  the  great  and  the  lit- 
tle, the  noble  and  the  base,  the  sad  and  the  merry,  are  brought 
together  in  the  Plays,  shocked  and  disgusted  some  of  the  earlier 
critics,  both  English  and  French  (Thomas  Rymer  and  Voltaire, 
for  example),  who  could  not  sufficiently  free  their  minds  from 
classical  and  from  merely  conventional  standards,  to  appreciate 
aright  the  artistic  management  of  the  heterogeneous.  The  bring- 
ing together  of  such  diverse  material,  is,  in  itself,  easy  enough  to 
do ;  but  to  subject  it  all  to  the  dominancy  of  a  great  idea  and  a 
profound  feeling,  is  the  work  of  the  master-artist,  who  lives  for  all 
and  in  all  —  whose  heart  is  the  heart  of  the  world  —  who  sustains 


2  2  INTR  OD  UC  TJON. 

a  sympathetic  relationship  with  all  things  —  the  force  and  richness 
of  whose  inner  life  assimilate  all  the  forms  of  human  activity 
around  him.*  In  this  respect  no  modern  poet  comes  nearer  to 
Shakespeare  than  does  Robert  Browning.  And  in  the  Prologue 
to  his  "Ferishtah's  Fancies,"  written  September  12,  1883,  in  his 
72d  year,  he  has  expressed,  with  a  wonderful  touch,  what  is  as 
applicable  to  the  varied  ingredients  of  a  Play  of  Shakespeare,  as 
to  the  "  Fancies  "  which  it  is  meant  to  characterize. 

Shakespeare  surpasses  all  other  dramatists,  both  of  ancient  and 
modern  times,  in  the  natural  evolution  of  his  dialogue  —  the  nat- 
ural evolution  —  the  way  in  which  one  speech  depends  on,  and  is 
evolved  out  of  a  preceding  speech.  It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  give 
special  examples  of  this.  They  can  be  found  wherever  one  hap- 
pens to  open  the  Plays.  This  natural  evolution  of  the  dialogue  in- 
dicates how  completely  the  poet  identified  himself  with  his  scenes. 
And  with  what  skill  little  intervals  are  filled  up  with  side-dialogues  ! 
For  example  :  in  Julius  Csesar,  A.  II.  Sc.  i.  86-112,  the  conspir- 
ators, Cassius,  Casca,  Decius,  Cinna,  Metellus  Cimber,  and  Tre- 
bonius,  call  upon  Brutus,  before  the  day  breaks.  After  Cassius 
has  presented  his  companions  to  Brutus,  who  welcomes  them  all, 
he  entreats  a  word  aside  with  Brutus.  While  they  whisper  apart, 
Decius  says  to  the  others  :  "  Here  lies  the  east ;  doth  not  the  day 
break  here  ?  Casca.  No.  Cinna.  O,  pardon,  sir,  it  doth ;  and  yon 
gray  lines,  that  fret  the  clouds,  are  messengers  of  day.  Casca.  You 
shall  confess  that  you  are  both  deceived.  Here,  as  I  point  my 
sword,  the  sun  arises  ;  which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south, 
weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year.  Some  two  months  hence, 
up  higher  towards  the  north  he  first  presents  his  fire;  and  the 
high  east  stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here." 


*  In  connection  with  this  subject,  see  Mr.  Hales's  Paper  on  the  Porter 
Scene  in  Macbeth,  New  Shakspere  Society  Transactions,  1874,  p.  262;  and 
Contrasting  Scenes  in  the  "  Shakespeare  Key,"  by  Charles  and  Mary  Cowden 
Clarke,  pp.  50,  51.  The  Scenes  noted  are,  Henry  VIII.,  A.  V.  Sc.  iii. ;  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  A.  IV.  Sc.  v.  96  et  seq.;  Macbeth,  A.  II.  Sc.  iii.  1-45;  Hamlet, 
A.  V.  Sc.  i.;  Othello,  A.  III.  Sc.  i.;  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  A.  V.  Sc.ii.  241-281. 


INTRODUCTION.  2$ 

The  private  conference  over,  Brutus  turns  to  the  others  and 
says  :  "  Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  one."  etc. 

How  simple,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  all  this  seems  !  And  yet 
it  demanded  a  perfect  identification  on  the  part  of  the  poet  with 
his  characters  —  their  situations  and  their  circumstances. 

The  side-dialogue  may  be  regarded,  too,  as  indicating  the  con- 
spirators' deep  sense  of  what  they  have  entered  upon ;  and  they 
endeavor  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  are  calm  and  self-pos- 
sessed under  it,  by  their  off-hand  talk,  during  the  conference  of 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  about  where  lies  the  east  and  the  direction 
of  the  Capitol.  This  talk  on  ordinary  matters,  at  a  time  of  great 
import,  is  not  unlike  the  minute  observation  which  attends  a  great 
intensity  of  feeling.* 

Thomas  De  Quincey,  in  his  Life  of  Shakespeare,  contrasts 
Shakespeare's  dialogue  with  that  of  the  French  and  the  Italian 
drama  (perhaps  a  little  too  strongly,  as  is  his  wont)  :  "Among 
the  many  defects  and  infirmities  of  the  French  and  of  the  Italian 
drama,  indeed,  we  may  say  of  the  Greek,  the  dialogue  proceeds  - 
always  by  independent  speeches,  replying  indeed  to  each  other,  I 
but  never  modified  in  its  several  openings  by  the  momentary 
effect  of  its  several  terminal  forms  immediately  preceding.  Now, 
in  Shakespeare,  who  first  set  an  example  of  that  most  important 
innovation,  in  all  his  impassioned  dialogues,  each  reply  or  rejoin- 
der seems  the  mere  rebound  of  the  previous  speech.  Every  form 
of  natural  interruption,  breaking  through  the  restraints  of  cere- 
mony under  the-impulses  of  tempestuous  passion;  every  form 
of  hasty  interrogative,  ardent  reiteration  when  a  question  has  been 
evaded ;  every  form  of  scornful  repetition  of  the  hostile  words ; 
every  impatient  continuation  of  the  hostile  statement ;  in  short, 
all  modes  and  formulae  by  which  anger,  hurry,  fretfulness,  scorn, 
impatience,  or  excitement  under  any  movement  whatever,  can  dis- 
turb or  modify  or  dislocate  the  formal  bookish  style  of  commence- 


*  See  "  Crossing  Speeches,"  in  "  The  Shakespeare  Key  "  :  by  Charles  and 
Mary  Covvden  Clarke,  pp.  69-73. 


24  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

ment,  —  these  are  as  rife  in  Shakespeare's  dialogue  as  in  life  itself; 
and  how  much  vivacity,  how  profound  a  verisimilitude,  they  add 
to  the  scenic  effect  as  an  imitation  of  human  passion  and  real  life, 
we  need  not  say.  A  volume  might  be  written  illustrating  the  vast 
varieties  of  Shakespeare's  art  and  power  in  this  one  field  of  im- 
provement ;  another  volume  might  be  dedicated  to  the  exposure 
of  the  lifeless  and  unnatural  result  from  the  opposite  practice  in 
the  foreign  stages  of  France  and  Italy.  And  we  may  truly  say, 
that  were  Shakespeare  distinguished  from  them  by  this  single 
feature  of  nature  and  propriety,  he  would  on  that  account  alone 
have  merited  a  great  immortality." 

What  material  for  an  artistic  education  is  everywhere  present  in 
Shakespeare  !  In  the  minutest  details  of  his  art,  and  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  general  dramatic  action  !  There  is  no  clap-trap, 
no  getting  up  of  the  unexpected  and  surprising,  to  which  Dryden 
and  his  contemporaries  attached  so  much  importance,  no  tricky 
inventions.  The  whole  organism  of  a  play  is  made  to  serve  the 
soul  of  the  play.  And  instead,  too,  of  that  mechanical  unity  of 
action,  which  the  classical  plays  of  modern  times  more  or  less 
exhibit,  there  is  that  higher  vital  unity  which  results  from  a  domi- 
nant, all-pervading,  moulding  and  unify  ing  feeling. 


THE   SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY.  2$ 

THE 

SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY. 


Lady  Bab.   Did  you  never  read  Shikspur? 

Mrs.  Kitty.   Shikspur?     Shikspur?     Who  wrote  it? 

—  Garrick's  High  Life  below  Stairs. 

THE  question  which  was  raised,  some  years  ago,  and  which 
has  been  discussed  ever  since,  as  to  the  authorship  of  the 
Shakespeare  Plays,  is  one  which  no  more  calls  for  an  answer  than 
a  question  which  might  be  raised  by  some  bumptious  quidnunc, 
as  to  whether  the  Canterbury  Tales  were  not  written  by  John 
Gower,  or  the  Faerie  Queene,  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  or  the  Dun- 
ciad,  by  Dean  Swift,  or  Tarn  O'Shanter,  by  some  Scottish  philoso- 
pher, or  other. 

There's  not  a  particle  of  evidence  to  begin  with,  of  a  kind  even 
to  raise  the  faintest  suspicion,  that  William  Shakespeare  of  Strat- 
ford-upon- Avon,  Gentleman,  was  not  the  author  of  the  Plays  and 
Poems  attributed  to  him.  The  question  as  to  the  authorship  of 
these  wonderful  products  of  dramatic  genius,  started  with  the  mere 
assumption  that  a  man  circumstanced  as  was  William  Shakespeare, 
and  with  no  scholastic  training,  could  not  have  written  the  Plays ; 
and  Lord  Bacon  was,  accordingly,  selected  from  the  many  great 
men  of  the  time,  as  having  the  most  august  intellect,  and,  ergo,  as 
being  the  most  likely  to  have  produced  the  Plays.  The  assump- 
tion, of  course,  involved  the  idea  that  great  intellectual  ability,  of 
a  signally  analytic  and  inductive  order,  would,  of  itself,  be  equal 
to  the  production  of  works  which  exhibit  the  most  signally  syn- 
thetic and  intuitive  order  of  mind  which  has  yet  been  known 
among  men. 


26  THE   SHAKESPEARE-BACON   CONTROVERSY. 

The  learning  which  the  Plays  exhibit  it  has  been  thought  im- 
possible for  a  man  in  Shakespeare's  position  to  have  possessed. 
When  the  transcendent  power  of  the  Plays  is  considered,  the 
learning,  strictly  speaking,  which  is  secreted  in  them,  is  surpris- 
ingly little.  The  Plays  bear  more  emphatic  testimony  than  do 
any  other  masterpieces  of  genius,  to  the  fact  that  great  creative 
power  may  be  triumphantly  exercised  without  learning  (I  mean 
the  learning  of  the  Schools) .  But  the  knowledge  and  the  wisdom 
with  which  they  are  gloriously  illuminated,  are  the  greatest  possible 
which  man  has  yet,  in  his  whole  history,  shown  himself  capable 
of  possessing  —  just  that  kind  of  knowledge  and  wisdom  which 
Shakespeare,  assuming  the  requisite  constitutional  receptivity,  was 
most  favorably  circumstanced  to  acquire.  . 

A  notion  prevails  in  these  days  of  a  diseased  analytic  conscious- 
ness that  the  only  way  to  know  in  any  given  direction,  is  to  make 
a  large  number  of  observations  in  that  direction,  and  when  one 
has,  say,  a  flour  barrel  full  of  jottings,  to  turn  them  out  on  the 
floor,  and  to  get  down  on  hands  and  knees  and  sort  'em  into  some 
result ! 

But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  direct  perception  of  truth;  and 
of  a  kind  of  truth  which  can  never  be  attained  to  by  the  mere 
grubbing  and  delving  intellect,  however  great  that  intellect  may 
be.  This  direct  perception  of  truth  is  an  attribute  of  man's  spirit- 
ual nature.  When  a  man's  spiritual  nature  is  adequately  quickened, 
and  in  the  requisite  harmony  with  the  constitution  of  things  (and 
there  can  be  no  artistic  or  creative  power  in  any  one  who  is  not 
to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  so  conditioned),  he  takes  cognizance 
of  the  workings  of  nature  and  of  the  life  of  man,  by  direct  assimila- 
tion of  their  hidden  principles — principles  which  cannot  be  reached 
through  an  observation,  by  the  natural  intelligence,  of  the  phe- 
nomenal. He  may  thus  become  possessed  of  a  knowledge,  or 
rather  wisdom,  far  beyond  his  conscious  observation  and  objective 
experience.  By  direct  assimilation  of  hidden  principles,  I  mean, 
that  assimilation  which  results  from  the  response  of  spirit  to  spirit. 
All  spirit  is  mutually  attractive,  as  all  matter  is ;  and,  if  it  is  not 


THE    SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY.  2*J 

"  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  but  free  in  its  activity,  it  goes  forth 
to  respond  to  all  manifestations  of  spirit  made  through  the  phe- 
nomena of  nature  and  of  human  life.  It  is  this  freedom  of  spirit- 
ual activity  which  distinguishes  what  we  call  genius  from  what  is 
understood  as  mere  talent.  Genius  finds  its  way,  by  its  own  light, 
where  mere  intellect  would  be  lost  in  darkness. 

In  all  other  works  of  genius  with  which  I  am  acquainted,  I  dis- 
cover no  such  evidences  of  a  direct  perception  of  truth,  as  I  dis- 
cover in  the  works  of  Shakespeare.  By  a  direct  perception  of  truth, 
I  mean,  an  immediate  grasp  of  truth,  without  any  conscious  induc- 
tion or  deduction.  Women  have  this  direct  perception,  in  some  re- 
spects, more  than  men.  And  every  great  genius  has  united  in  himself 
the  masculine  and  the  feminine  nature.  And  here  is  a  remark- 
able fact  to  be  noticed,  in  regard  to  Shakespeare  —  all  the  knowl- 
edge and  wisdom  which  he  was  circumstanced  to  acquire  directly 
from  his  own  environment,  is  quite  unerring :  but  his  mere  book- 
knowledge,  wherever  it  appears,  in  his  works,  is  more  or  less  incor- 
rect. Indeed,  such  was  the  creative  force  of  the  man,  that  all 
knowledge  outside  of  the  range  of  his  own  experience,  he  used 
with  a  grand  audacity.  Of  the  time  and  place  of  persons,  and 
things,  and  events  and  customs,  he  appears  to  have  been  quite 
regardless.  He  knew  that  such  great  men  as  Galen,  and  Alex- 
ander, and  Cato,  once  lived,  that  Galen  was  a  celebrated  physi- 
cian, Alexander,  a  famous  conqueror,  and  Cato  (the  Censor),  an 
eminent  patriot,  and  soldier,  and  statesman  ;  but  he  introduces 
them  all  into  one  of  his  greatest  plays  —  perhaps  the  most  perfect 
as  a  work  of  dramatic  art  —  Coriolanus  !  The  period  of  the 
legendary  Coriolanus,  was  the  5th  century  before  Christ;  his 
victory  over  the  Volscians,  at  Corioli,  being  placed  at  450  B.C. 
Alexander  was  born  nearly  150  years  later;  Cato,  more  than  250 
years  later ;  and  Galen,  more  than  600  years  later  ! 

The  Winter's  Tale  exhibits  false  geography  and  a  jolly  jumble 
of  times  and  events  and  persons.  The  great  poet  was  too  much 
occupied  with  his  dramatic  creation,  to  trouble  himself  with  mere 
matters  of  scholarship.  Accordingly,  Bohemia  is  made  a  maritime 


\ 


28  THE   SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY. 

country  (as  it  is,  also,  in  the  original  novel,  "  Pandosto,  or  the  Tri- 
umph of  Time,"  by  Robert  Greene)  ;  Whitsun  pastorals  and  Chris- 
tian burial,  and  numerous  other  features  of  the  Elizabethan  age, 
are  introduced  into  pagan  times ;  Queen  Hermione  speaks  of  her- 
self as  a  daughter  of  the  Emperor  of  Russia ;  her  statue  is  repre- 
sented as  executed  by  Julio  Romano,  an  Italian  painter  of  the 
1 6th  century;  a  puritan  sings  psalms  to  hornpipes ;  and,  to  crown 
all,  messengers  are  sent  to  consult  the  oracle  of  Apollo,  at  Delphi, 
which  is  represented  as  an  island  ! 

This  lovely  romantic  drama,  which,  with  all  this  gallimaufry, 
invites  a  rectified  attitude  toward  the  True  and  the  Sweet,  was 
one  of  the  latest,  if  not  the  latest,  of  the  poet's  compositions. 
But  it  doesn't  appear  that  his  indirect  knowledge  improved  much 
with  years. 

Such  examples  of  jumble  and  anachronism  abound  throughout 
the  Plays.  And  there  is  not  a  single  Play,  whatever  be  its  time 
and  place,  which  does  not  reflect,  in  every  act,  almost,  some  fea- 
tures of  the  age  of  Elizabeth. 

Learning,  indeed  !  If  Shakespeare  hadn't  possessed  something 
infinitely  better  than  learning  (and,  I  would  add,  something  infi- 
nitely better  than  a  great  analytic,  inductive,  deductive,  and  clas- 
sifying intellect,  such  as  that  possessed  by  Lord  Bacon) ,  we  should 
not  now  be  enjoying  such  a  noble  dramatic  heritage  as  we  are. 
And  if  John  Shakespeare  had  had  the  means  to  send  William  to 
Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  William  had  gone  through,  or  been 
driven  through,  the  curriculum  of  either  of  these  Universities,  what 
a  misfortune  it  might  have  been  to  mankind  !  He  might  have 
been  schooled  in,  and  might  afterwards  have  adhered  to,  those 
laws  of  dramatic  art  which,  in  the  absence  of  such  schooling,  he 
rendered  obsolete  for  all  time,  and,  by  the  wonderful  dramatic  art 
which  he  himself  developed,  wrought  a  complete  revolution  in  the 
drama. 

It  may  be  said,  too,  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  Plays  to  which 
Shakespeare  could  have  been  helped,  by  either  of  the  Universities 
in  his  time,  so  far  as  his  creative  power  was  concerned.  That 


THE   SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY.  29 

might  have  been  seriously  impaired.  His  scholarship,  if  he  had 
been  a  University  man,  would  have  been  more  correct,  but  a  more 
correct  scholarship  would  not  have  contributed  anything  to  the 
dramatic  excellence  of  the  Plays,  or  to  the  triumphant  organization 
which  they  exhibit. 

JL  Shakespeare  dicLnot  write  the  Plaj^ajttributejd  to^  hirn^  cer- 
tainly Lord  Bacon  did  not  write  them.  That  Bacon  was  one  of 
the  most  august  of  human  intellects  is  freely  conceded,  But  vast 
as  is  the  range  of  powers  exhibited  in  his  works,  there  is  jno  ^evi- 
dence in  them  that  he  possessed  the  kind  of  powers  required  for 
the  composition  of  the  Shakespeare  Plays.  The  evidence  is  of 
the  strongest  kind  that  he  was  strangely  deficient  in  such  powers. 
His  spirituality  appears  to  have  been  in  inverse  proportion  to  his 
intellectual  power.  And  his  intellectual  power  was  not  of  the 
creative  order.  In  fact,  intellectual  power,  however  great,  cannot 
be,  of  itself,  creative.  It  must  be  united  with  spiritual  power. 
Bacon's  mind  was  signally  analytic,  inductive,  deductive,  judicial ; 
the  mind  which  produced  the  Shakespeare  Plays  was  as  signally  l 
intuitive  (by  reason  of  its  spiritual  temperament) ,  and  as  signally 
synthetic  (taking  in  everything  which  was  presented  to  it,  in  its 
completeness,  and  in  all  its  relations) . 

It  is  universally  admitted  that  the  author  of  the  Shakespeare 
Plays,  whether  that  author  were  William  Shakespeare,  or  Lord 
Bacon,  or  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  or  Queen  Elizabeth,  was  the  greatest 
physiologist  of  human  passion,  of  whom  we  have  any  record  in  ' 
Tffimanhistory.  This,  I  say,  is  universally  admitted.  And  he  was 
not  only  the  greatest  physiologist  of  human  passion,  but  the  most 
artistic  physiologist  of  human  passion ;  by  which  I  mean,  that 
passion,  in  its  evolution,  he  always  presents  in  its  relation  to  the 
constitution  of  things.  That  constitution  is  never  violated.  The 
power  of  self-assertion  declines  as  the  passion  develops ;  and  you 
can  put  your  finger  on  the  place,  in  any  tragedy,  where  a  great 
passion  passes  into  fate,  after  which  its  subject  is  swept  helplessly 
along. 

Herein  consists  the  moral  proportion  of  the  Plays,  namely,  that 


30  THE   SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY. 

they  move  in  harmony  with  the  constitution  of  things.  And  this 
moral  proportion  could  not  have  been  secured  by  the  rules  of  the 
ancients  nor  by  any  other  outside  rules.  It  was  secured  by  the 
artist's  deep  sense  of  the  constitution  of  things  —  by  his  spiritual 
harmony  with  the  constitution  of  things. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  what  must  this  greatest  physiolo- 
gist of  human  passion  have  been  ?  Certainly,  one  who  had,  him- 
self, a  deeply  passionate  nature ;  one,  who  could  sympathetically 
reproduce  within  himself  all  the  passions  which  are  depicted  in 
the  Plays.  And  if  all  the  Plays  had  perished,  and  only  the  Rape 
of  Lucrece,  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the  Sonnets,  had  been 
preserved,  these  works  would,  alone,  have  testified  to  his  pro- 
foundly passionate  nature.  Or,  if  all  his  works  had  been  lost,  with 
the  exception  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  this  Play  would  have  suffi- 
ciently testified  to  his  profoundly  passionate  nature. 

The  works  of  Francis  Bacon  bear  an  emphatic  testimony  to  his 
having  been  the  coldest  of  mankind.  No  one,  certainly,  of  the 
great  Elizabethan  men,  who  has  left  a  sufficient  record  of  himself, 
by  which  he  may  be  judged,  was  so  deficient  in  sympathetic 
warmth  as  Lord  Bacon.  And  yet  this  man  wrote  Romeo  and 
Juliet !  (See  his  Essay  "  Of  Love.")  This  man  was  the  creator 
of  a  Cordelia,  a  Desdemona,  a  Miranda,  a  Perdita,  a  Hermione, 
and,  more  surprising  still,  of  a  Cleopatra  !  This  man,  we  are 
asked  to  believe,  wrote  dramatic  blank  verse  which  has  never  been 
equalled  on  this  earth  as  a  manifestation  of  feeling  and  of  perfect 
dramatic  identification  —  verse  which  no  mere  metrical  skill  nor 
metrical  sensibility,  even,  could  have  produced.  But  see  "The 
Translation  of  certain  Psalms  into  English  Verse.  By  the  Right 
Honourable  Francis  Lord  Verulam,  Viscount  St.  Alban,"  and 
dedicated  "To  his  very  good  friend,  Mr.  George  Herbert,"  who 
translated  part  of  the  Advancement  of  Learning,  into  Latin. 
(The  Psalms  are  I,  XII,  XC,  CIV,  CXXV,  CXXXVII,  CXLIX.) 
The  translation  was  published  in  1625,  in  Quarto,  two  years  after 
the  publication  of  the  First  Folio  edition  of  the  great  Plays. 


THE   SHAKESPEARE-BACON  CONTROVERSY.  31 

This  doggerel,  Lord  Bacon  thought  it  worth  while  to  publish,  in 
his  65th  year,  though  he  ignored  the  authorship  of  what  are  re- 
garded as  the  greatest  productions  of  human  genius  !  The  credu- 
lity of  those  who  are  suffering  from  the  dry  rot  of  doubt  is  some- 
thing wonderful. 


32          THE  AUTHENTICITY   OF   THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 


THE 

AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 


NO  more  authentic  volume  was  published  in  the  first  quarter 
of  the  i  yth  century  than  the  First  Folio  edition  of  the  Plays 
of  Shakespeare,  which  bears  the  following  title  : 

"Mr.  William  Shakespeares  Comedies,  Histories,  &  Tragedies. 
Published  according  to  the  True  Originall  Copies.  London 
Printed  by  Isaac  laggard,  and  Ed.  Blount.  1623." 

The  colophon  reads  :  "  Printed  at  the  Charges  of  W.  Jaggard, 
Ed.  Blount,  I.  Smithweeke,  and  W.  Aspley,  1623." 

On  the  title  page,  on  a  rectangular  ground,  measuring  7.5x6.3 
inches,  is  a  portrait  of  the  Poet,  under  which,  on  the  left-hand 
side,  is  the  inscription,  "  Martin  Droeshout  sculpsit  London." 
Droeshout  was  a  Dutch  artist,  resident,  at  the  time,  in  London. 
He  engraved  portraits  of  George  Chapman  (for  his  translation  of 
Homer),  John  Fox,  the  martyrologist,  John  Howson,  Bishop  of 
Oxford,  afterward  Bishop  of  Durham,  Richard  Elton,  Lord  Mont- 
joy  Blount,  William  Fairfax,  who  fell  at  the  siege  of  Frankendale, 
in  1621,  and  other  distinguished  persons  of  the  time.  (See  3d 
Var.  ed.  of  Shakespeare,  1821,  vol.  2,  p.  514.) 

Droeshout  may  never  have  seen  Shakespeare,  and  may  have 
had  to  work  after  some  poor  sketch  or  painting,  in  the  possession 
of  Shakespeare's  family,  or,  which  is  more  likely  (as  the  costume 
is  evidently  theatrical,  even  to  the  hair,  which  has  the  appearance 
of  a  peruke),  after  some  daub  which  had  been  hanging  in  the  tir- 
ing-room of  the  theatre,  representing  Shakespeare  in  one  of  his 
impersonations,  possibly,  as  has  been  suggested,  Old  Knowell,  in 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO.         33 

Ben  Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour."  Be  that  as  it  may, 
the  portrait  must  have  been  a  passably  good  likeness,  or  Ben  Jon- 
son,  his  most  intimate  friend,  would  hardly  have  allowed  his  lines 
"To  the  Reader"  respecting  it,  to  face  the  title-page,  especially, 
too,  as  there  must  have  been  hundreds  of  people  in  London,  at 
the  time,  to  whom  Shakespeare's  face  had  been  familiar.  But  all 
which  concerns  our  present  purpose  is,  that  the  portrait  is  not  a 
"sell,"  but,  unquestionably,  an  authentic,  a  bona-fide  portrait, 
done  by  an  engraver  of  whose  work  numerous  other  specimens 
exist,  and  testified  to  by  a  life-long  friend,  and  that  friend  one  of 
the  most  prominent  of  the  poets  and  dramatists  of  the  time,  and 
exceedingly  jealous  of  his  own  reputation. 

Ben  Jonson's  lines  '  To  the  Reader '  are  familiar  to  everybody 

who  reads : 

"  This  Figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put, 

It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 
Wherein  the  Grauer  had  a  strife 
with  Nature,  to  out-doo  the  life : 
O,  could  he  but  haue  drawne  his  wit 
As  well  in  brasse,  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face ;  the  Print  would  then  surpasse 
All,  that  was  euer  writ  in  brasse. 
But,  since  he  cannot,  Reader,  looke 
Not  on  his  Picture,  but  his  Booke." 

B.  I. 

A  large  allowance  must  of  course  be  made  for  conventional 
extravagance  of  phrase,  in  such  cases.  Similar  compliments  to 
engravers  were  not  uncommon  at  the  time.  See  notes  to  the 
Lines,  in  "Shakespeare's  Centurie  of  Prayse ;  .  .  .  By  C.  M. 
Ingleby,  LL.D.  Second  edition,  ...  by  Lucy  Toulmin  Smith," 
pp.  141,  142.  But  the  important  thing  is  the  high  tribute  in- 
volved in  the  Lines,  to  the  Poet's  "  wit." 

Though  it  is  outside  of  our  present  purpose,  one  thing  must  be 
said  in  defence  of  Droeshout,  as  an  engraver,  namely,  that,  judg- 
ing from  other  portraits  which  exist,  engraved  by  him,  especially 
those  of  Fairfax  and  Bishop  Howson,  this  of  Shakespeare,  as  we 


34        THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 

have  it  in  the  First  Folio,  does  not  do  him  (the  engraver)  justice, 
evidence  existing  that  the  plate  on  which  the  portrait  was  en- 
graved, was  tampered  with  before  it  was  used  for  printing  the 
portrait  as  it  appears  in  the  First  Folio.  That  evidence  is  afforded 
by  a  proof-impression  now  among  the  Shakespearian  rarities, 
drawings,  and  engravings,  possessed  by  James  Orchard  Hallivvell- 
Phillipps,*  Esq.,  F.R.S.,  at  Hollingbury  Copse,  near  Brighton, 
England,  "  that  quaint  wigwam  on  the  Sussex  Downs  which  has 
the  honour  of  sheltering  more  record  and  artistic  evidences  con- 
nected with  the  personal  history  of  the  Great  Dramatist  than  are 
to  be  found  in  any  other  of  the  World's  libraries."  Mr.  Halliwell- 
Phillipps  privately  printed  a  Calendar  of  these  rarities,  "  For  Spe- 
cial Circulation  and  for  Presents  only."  I  have  had  the  privilege 
of  examining  the  above-mentioned  proof-impression,  and  can 
testify  to  the  superior  delicacy  and  softness  of  the  work  to  that 
exhibited  by  the  portrait  as  it  appears  in  all  existing  copies  of  the 
First  Folio.  The  late  F.  W.  Fairholt,  F.  S.  A.,  in  his  description, 
given  in  the  Calendar,  of  this  proof-impression,  minutely  contrasts 
it  with  the  Folio  engraving,  and  explains  how  by  cross-hatching 
and  coarse  dotting,  the  artistic  merit  of  the  plate  was  seriously 
impaired ;  and  the  late  Mr.  William  Smith,  Director  of  the  Nat- 
ional Portrait  Gallery,  the  highest  authority  on  early  engraving, 
after  a  careful  examination  of  the  proof-impression,  gives  it  as  his 
opinion,  that  "  on  what  is  technically  termed  proving  the  plate,  it 
was  thought  that  much  of  the  work  was  so  delicate  as  not  to  allow 
of  a  sufficient  number  of  impressions  being  printed.  Droeshout 
might  probably  have  refused  to  spoil  his  work,  and  it  was  re- 
touched by  an  inferior  and  coarser  engraver." 

Sed  hac  hactcnus.  My  theme  is  the  authenticity  of  the  First 
Folio. 

Following  the  title-leaf,  is  the  Dedication,  "  To  the  most  noble 
and  incomparable  paire  of  brethren.  William  Earle  of  Pembroke, 
&c.  Lord  Chamberlaine  to  the  Kings  most  Excellent  Maiesty. 


Mr.  Halliwell-Phillipps  died  on  the  3d  of  January,  1889. 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO.          35 

and  Philip  Earle  of  Montgomery,  &c.  Gentleman  of  his  Maies- 
ties  Bed-Chamber.  Both  Knights  of  the  most  Noble  Order  of  the 
Garter,  and  our  singular  good  Lords." 

It  may  be  assumed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  privilege  of 
dedicating  the  Work  to  two  noblemen  of  such  exalted  rank  and 
station  as  were  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  and  the  Earl  of  Montgomery, 
had  first  to  be  solicited  and  secured  by  the  dedicators,  John 
Heminge  and  Henry  Condell.  It  would  have  been  a  piece  of  un- 
exampled audacity,  in  those  days,  for  two  actors  to  dedicate  the 
Work  to  them  without  express  permission.  And  it  is  evident 
from  the  Dedication  itself,  that  the  privilege  was  granted  by  them, 
not  so  much  on  account  of  the  honor  (although  they  no  doubt 
esteemed  it  such),  which  the  Dedication  would  do  them,  as  by 
reason  of  their  personal  interest  in  Shakespeare,  and  of  their 
admiration  of  his  Plays. 

From  what  we  know  of  one  of  the  dedicatees,  the  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke, as  a  liberal  patron  of  literature  and  the  drama,  and  of  their 
representatives,  it  may  be  presumed,  that  he  generously  aided  in 
the  enterprise,  which  must  have  been  attended  with  large  expense. 
The  publication  of  such  a  magnificent  volume,  in  those  days, 
when  there  was  no  general  reading  public,  and  no  book  trade,  in 
its  present  meaning,  was  a  great  undertaking,  and  could  have 
been  possible  only  with  noble  patronage. 

The  knowledge  we  have  of  these  two  noblemen,  is  abundant  and 
entirely  authentic.  Anthony  a  Wood  says  of  them,  in  his  "  Athenae 
Oxonienses.  —  An  exact  history  of  all  the  Writers  and  Bishops 
who  have  had  their  Education  in  the  most  Antient  and  Famous 
University  of  Oxford,  from  15  Hen.  vn.  A.D.  1500,  to  the 
Author's  death  in  Nov.  1695,"  "William  Herbert,  son  and  heir 
of  Hen.  Earl  of  Pembroke,  was  born  at  Wilton  in  Wilts,  8  Apr. 
1580,  became  a  nobleman  of  New  Coll.  in  Lent  Term  1592,  aged 
13,  continued  there  about  two  years,  succeeded  his  father  in  his 
honours  1601,  made  Knight  of  the  Garter  i  Jac.  I.  and  Govern- 
our  of  Portsmouth  six  years  after.  In  1626  he  was  unanimously 
elected  Chancellor  of  this  University  [Oxford],  being  a  great 


36         THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 

patron  of  learning,  and  about  that  time  was  made  Lord  Steward 
of  the  Kings  Household.  He  was  not  only  a  great  favourer  of 
learned  and  ingenious  men,  but  was  himself  learned,  and  endowed 
to  admiration  with  a  poetical  geny,  as  by  those  amorous  and  not 
inelegant  aires  and  poems  of  his  composition  doth  evidently 
appear ;  some  of  which  had  musical-notes  set  to  them  by  Hen. 
Lawes  *  and  Nich.  Laneare.  All  that  he  hath  extant,  were  pub- 
lished with  this  title  :  Poems  written  by  William  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke, etc.,  many  of  which  are  answered  by  way  of  repartee,  by 
Sir  Benj.  Rudyard,  with  other  poems  written  by  them  occasionally 
and  apart.  Lond.  1660.  Oct.  He  died  suddenly  in  his  house 
called  Baynard's  Castle  in  London,  on  the  tenth  of  Apr.  in  six- 
teen hundred  and  thirty  .  .  .  whereupon  his  body  was  buried  in 
the  Cath.  Ch.  at  Salisbury  near  to  that  of  his  Father.  See  more 
of  him  in  the  "Fasti,"  among  the  Creations,  an.  1605.  He  had  a 
younger  brother  named  Philip,  who  was  also  a  nobleman  of  New 
Coll.  at  the  same  time  with  his  brother,  was  afterwards  created 
Earl  of  Montgomery,  and  upon  the  death  of  his  brother  William, 
succeeded  in  the  title  of  Pembroke.  ...  He  also  turned  rebel  f 
when  the  Civil  Wars  began  in  1642,  was  one  of  the  Council  of 
State  by  Oliver's  appointment  after  K.  Ch.  I.  was  beheaded,"  .  .  . 

He  too  was  Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Oxford,  in  1648. 

Pembroke  College  was  named  after  William,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
He  presented  to  the  Bodleian  Library  242  Greek  manuscripts 
which  he  had  bought  in  Italy. 

In  the  "Fasti  Oxonienses  "  appended  to  the  "Athense  Oxoni- 
enses,"  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  is  represented  as  "  the  very  picture 
and  viva  effigies  of  Nobility,  a  person  truly  generous,  a  singular 
lover  of  learning  and  the  professors  thereof,  and  therefore  by  the 
Academians  elected  their  Chancellor  some  years  after  this.  .  .  . 


*  The  leading  musical  composer  of  the  time.  He  composed  the  music  for 
Milton's  Comus,  and  performed  the  combined  characters  of  the  Spirit  and  the 
shepherd  Thyrsis  in  that  drama;  was  one  of  the  court-musicians  to  K.  Charles 
the  First.  t  Wood  was  a  hot  Royalist. 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OP  THE  FIRST  FOLIO.        37 

His  person  was  rather  majestic  than  elegant,  and  his  presence, 
whether  quiet  or  in  motion,  was  full  of  stately  gravity.  His  mind 
was  purely  heroic,  often  stout,  but  never  disloyal,  and  so  vehe- 
ment an  opponent  of  the  Spaniard,  that  when  that  match  fell  under 
consideration  in  the  latter  end  of  the  reign  of  K.  Jam.  I.  he  would 
sometimes  rouse  to  the  trepidation*  of  that  king,  yet  kept  in 
favour  still ;  for  His  Majesty  knew  plain  dealing  (as  a  jewel  in  all 
men  so)  was  in  a  Privy-Counsellor  an  ornamental  duty ;  and  the 
same  true  heartedness  commended  him  to  K.  Ch.  I." 

These  two  noblemen  were  nephews  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  their 
mother  being  Mary  Sidney,  Sir  Philip's  sister,  who  married  Henry, 
2d  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  1576.  For  her  Sir  Philip  wrote  his 
"Arcadia."  She  composed  an  "Elegy  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney," 
and  a  "Pastoral  Dialogue  in  Praise  of  Astraea"  (Queen  Eliza- 
beth) .  She  was  a  Hebrew  scholar,  and  translated  a  number  of 
the  Psalms  into  English  verse,  and  also  certain  works  from  the 
French.  She  died  in  1621.  For  a  further  account  of  her,  see 
Rose's  "  Biographical  Dictionary."  She  was  the  subject  of  Ben 
Jonson's  celebrated  epitaph  : 

"  Underneath  this  sable  f  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother. 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learn'd  \  and  fair  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee." 

Lord  Clarendon  gives  a  noble  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
in  his  "History  of  the  Rebellion  and  Civil  Wars  in  England  :  " 

"  William,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  was  next,  a  man  of  another  mould 
and  making  [than  the  Earl  of  Arundel],  and  of  another  fame  and 
reputation  with  all  men,  being  the  most  universally  beloved  and 
esteemed  of  any  man  of  that  age  ;  and  having  a  great  office  in  the 


*  Ham-L'Estrange  in  his  "  History  of  the  reign  of  King  Charles  I."  under 
the  year  1630.  f  V.  R.,  "marble."  \  V.  R.,  "wise." 


38         THE  AUTHENTICITY   OF   THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 

court,  he  made  the  court  itself  better  esteemed,  and  more  rever- 
enced in  the  country.  And  as  he  had  a  great  number  of  friends 
of  the  best  men,  so  no  man  had  ever  the  confidence  to  avow  him- 
self to  be  his  enemy.  ...  He  was  master  of  a  great  fortune  from 
his  ancestors,  and  had  a  great  addition  from  his  wife,  .  .  .  but  all 
served  not  his  expense,  which  was  only  limited  by  his  great  mind, 
and  occasions  to  use  it  nobly. 

"  He  lived  many  years  about  the  court,  before  in  it ;  and  never 
by  it ;  being  rather  regarded  and  esteemed  by  King  James,  than 
loved  and  favoured.  After  the  foul  fall  of  the  earl  of  Somerset, 
he  was  made  lord  Chamberlain  of  the  King's  house,  more  for  the 
Court's  sake  than  his  own;  and  the  Court  appeared  with  the 
more  lustre,  because  he  had  the  government  of  that  province. 
As  he  spent  and  lived  upon  his  own  fortune,  so  he  stood  upon  his 
own  feet,  without  any  other  support  than  of  his  proper  virtue  and 
merit ;  and  lived  towards  the  favourites  with  that  decency,  as 
would  not  suffer  them  to  censure  or  reproach  his  master's  judg- 
ment and  election,  but  as  with  men  of  his  own  rank.  He  was  ex- 
ceedingly beloved  in  the  court,  because  he  never  desired  to  get  that 
for  himself,  which  others  labored  for,  but  was  still  ready  to  pro- 
mote the  pretences  of  worthy  men.  And  he  was  equally  cele- 
brated in  the  country,  for  having  received  no  obligations  from  the 
court  which  might  corrupt  or  sway  his  affections  and  judgment; 
so  that  all  who  were  displeased  and  unsatisfied  in  the  court,  were 
always  inclined  to  put  themselves  under  his  banner,  if  he  would 
have  admitted  them  ;  and  yet  he  did  not  so  reject  them,  as  to  make 
them  choose  another  shelter,  but  so  far  suffered  them  to  depend 
on  him,  that  he  could  restrain  them  from  breaking  out  beyond 
private  resentments  and  murmurs. 

"  He  was  a  great  lover  of  his  country,  and  of  the  religion  and  jus- 
tice, which  he  believed  could  only  support  it ;  and  his  friendships 
were  only  with  men  of  those  principles.  And  as  his  conversation 
was  most  with  men  of  the  most  pregnant  parts  and  understanding, 
so  towards  any  such,  who  needed  support  or  encouragements, 
though  unknown,  if  fairly  recommended  to  him,  he  was  very  lib- 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO.         39 

eral.     Sure  never  man  was  planted  in  a  court,  that  was  fitter  for 
that  soil,  or  brought  better  qualities  with  him  to  purify  that  air." 

See  also  Lodge's  "  Portraits  of  Illustrious  Personages  of  Great 
Britain,"  Bonn's  ed.,  vol.  3,  pp.  257-266. 

The  poet  Daniel  inscribed  to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  1601, 
his  prose  work,  "A  Defence  of  Rhyme."  We  learn  from  this 
work  that  Daniel  pursued  the  study  of  history  and  poetry  under 
the  patronage  of  the  Pembroke  family,  he  having  been  brought  up 
at  Wilton,  the  family  seat,  and  to  the  same  family  he  appears  to 
have  been  indebted  for  a  university  education. 

Ben  Jonson  dedicated  his  "Catiline  his  Conspiracy,"  in  the 
First  Folio  edition  of  his  Works,  1616,  to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
in  words  which  reflect  the  character  of  both  the  dedicator  and  the 
dedicatee. 

"  To  the  Great  Example  of  Honor,  and  Vertue,  the  most  noble 
William,  Earle  of  Pembroke,  Lord  Chamberlaine,  etc.  My  Lord, 
In  so  thick,  and  darke  an  ignorance,  as  now  almost  covers  the  age, 
I  crave  leave  to  stand  neare  your  light :  and,  by  that,  to  bee  read. 
Posteritie  may  pay  your  benefit  the  honor,  &  thanks  :  when  it 
shall  know,  that  you  dare,  in  these  jig-given  times,  to  countenance 
a  legitimate  Poeme.  I  must  call  it  so,  against  all  noise  of  opinion  : 
from  whose  crude,  and  ayrie  reports,  I  appeale,  to  that  great  and 
singular  faculty  of  iudgement  in  your  Lordship,  able  to  vindicate 
truth  from  error.  It  is  the  first  (of  this  race)  that  ever  I  dedi- 
cated to  any  person,  and  had  I  not  thought  it  the  best,  it  should 
have  beene  taught  a  lesse  ambition.  Now,  it  approcheth  your 
censure  [i.e.,  judgment]  cheerfully,  and  with  the  same  assurance, 
that  innocency  would  appeare  before  a  magistrate. 

Your  Lo.  most  faithfull 
honorer, 

BEN  IONSON." 

Jonson  also  dedicated  his  "  Epigrammes,"  in  the  First  Folio 
edition  of  his  Works,  to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke. 

In  Chapman's  translation  of  Homer,  there  is  a  sonnet  addressed 
to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  the  following  words  :  "  To  the  learned, 


40  THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 

and  most  noble  patron  of  learning,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  etc. 
[Against  the  two  Enemies  of  Humanity  and  Religion  (Ignorance 
and  Impiety)  the  awak't  spirit  of  the  most  knowing  and  divine 
Homer  calls,  to  attendance  of  our  Heroical  Prince,  the  most 
honoured  and  incorruptible  heroe,  the  Earl  af  Pembroke,  &c.]  "  * 

The  sonnet  ends  with  the  line,  "  Pure  are  those  streams  that 
these  times  cannot  trouble,"  which  reflects  the  reputation  the  Earl 
universally  enjoyed. 

As  shown  by  Charles  Armitage  Brown,  in  his  "  Shakespeare's 
Autobiographical  Poems,  being  his  Sonnets  clearly  developed," 
etc.,  there  is  "  every  probability  short  of  certainty,"  that  by  the 
"Mr.  W.  H."  to  whom  the  first  edition  of  the  Sonnets  (1609)  is 
dedicated,  as  their  "onlie  begetter,"  (that  is,  the  Sonnets  were 
born  of  him,f)  was  meant  William  Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
The  judicial  Henry  Hallam  remarks  thereupon,  in  his  "  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Literature  of  Europe,"  "  This  hypothesis  is  not  strictly 
proved,  but  sufficiently  so,  in  my  opinion,  to  demand  our  assent." 

Shakespeare's  "  sugred  Sonnets  among  his  private  friends,"  are 
alluded  to  by  Francis  Meres,  in  his  "  Palladis  Tamia,"  published 
in  1598.  If  these  "sugred  sonnets"  were  the  same,  or  generally 
the  same,  as  those  published  in  1609,  it  is,  therefore,  not  unlikely, 
that  the  friendship  of  Poet  and  Patron  must  have  extended  over  a 
period  of  twenty  years. 

The  Dedication  of  the  First  Folio,  it  is  plain  to  see,  is  not  the 
ordinary,  conventional,  adulatory,  meaningless  dedication  of  the 
time,  which  was  as  often  solicited  by  the  dedicatee,  who  was  short 
of  honors,  as  by  the  dedicator,  who  was  short  of  funds  ;  but  that  so 
distinguished  had  been  the  favor  shown  to  Shakespeare  by  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke  and  the  Earl  of  Montgomery,  and  such  had 
been  their  estimation  of  his  Plays,  and  such  was  their  pre-emi- 
nence (especially  that  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke)  as  liberal  patrons 
of  literature  and  the  drama,  that,  in  the  words  of  the  Dedication, 


*  The  brackets  are  in  the  original  title. 

t "  Yet  be  most  proud  of  that  which  I  compile,  whose  influence  is  thine  and 
born  of  thee."     Sonnet  78. 


THE  AUTHENTICITY   OF   THE  FIRST  FOLIO.          41 

"the  Volume  asked  to  be  theirs."  What  significant  words  (or 
are  they  merely  words  without  any  significance  ?)  are  the  follow- 
ing, from  the  Dedication :  "  But  since  your  L.  L.  have  beene 
pleas' d  to  think  these  trifles  some-thing,  heeretofore ;  and  have 
prosequuted  both  them,  and  their  Authoiir  living,  with  so  much 
favour :  we  hope,  that  (they  out-living  him,  and  he  not  having  the 
fate,  common  with  some,  to  be  exequutor  to  his  owne  writings)  you 
will  use  the  like  indulgence  toward  them,  you  have  done  unto 
their  parent.  There  is  a  great  difference,  whether  any  Booke 
choose  his  Patrones,  orfinde  them  :  This  hath  done  both.  For,  so 
much  were  your  L.  L.  likings  of  the  severall  parts,  when  they  were 
acted,  as  before  they  were  published,  the  Volume  asttd  to  be  yours. 
We  have  but  collected  them,  and  done  an  office  to  the  dead,  to  pro- 
cure his  Orphanes,  Guardians;  without  ambition  either  of  self e- 
profit,  or  fame :  only  to  keep  the  memory  of  so  worthy  a  Friend,  6° 
Fellow  alive,  as  was  our  SHAKESPEARE,  by  humble  offer  of  his  playes, 
to  your  most  noble  patronage ." 

The  Pembrokes  were  of  the  best  stock  in  England;  and  no 
other  noble  family  of  the  time  sustained  more  intimate  relations 
with,  and  favored  more  liberally,  literature  and  the  drama,  and 
their  representatives,  nor  was  better  acquainted  with  all  the  literary 
and  dramatic  circumstances  of  the  time.  The  Earl  of  Pembroke 
certainly  knew  more  about  the  man  Shakespeare  and  the  author- 
ship of  the  Shakespeare  Plays  than  William  Henry  Smith,  Delia 
Bacon,  Nathaniel  Holmes,  Ignatius  Donnelly,  and  other  "  unfortu- 
nate souls  that  trace  them  in  their  line,"  all  of  whom  belong  to  a 
class  of  minds  characterized  by  Dr.  Ingleby  :  "  Mix  up,"  he  says, 
"  a  quantity  of  matters  relevant  and  irrelevant,  and  those  minds 
will  eliminate  from  the  instrument  of  reasoning  every  point  on 
which  the  reasoning  ought  to  turn,  and  then  proceed  to  exercise 
their  constitutional  perversity  on  the  residue." 

If  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  had  had  any  doubt  as  to  Shakespeare's 
being  the  veritable  author  of  the  Plays,  he  was  not  the  man  to 
accept  the  dedication  of  them  as  Shakespeare's,  nor  to  allow  the 
statement  in  the  Dedication  that  he  and  his  brother  Philip,  had 


42  THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF   THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 

" prosequuted  both  them  and  their  Authour  living,  with  so  much 
favour"  Again.  No  other  author  of  the  time  knew  the  man 
Shakespeare  better,  sustained  more  intimate  relations  with  him, 
nor  was  better  acquainted  with  all  the  literary  and  dramatic  cir- 
cumstances of  the  time,  than  Ben  Jonson.  And  if  he  had  had 
any  doubt,  induced  by  the  faintest  whisper  of  suspicion  in  the 
dramatic  world,  as  to  whether  Shakespeare  were  the  veritable 
author  of  the  Plays,  he  was  the  unlikeliest  man  in  all  England  to 
lend  his  name,  and  authority,  to  a  work  of  questionable  authorship. 
We  know  the  personal  character  of  Ben  Jonson  better,  perhaps, 
than  we  know  that  of  any  other  man  of  the  time.  His  character 
is  to  us  as  distinct  as  that  of  his  great  namesake  of  the  i8th  cen- 
tury. Both  were  characterized  by  a  rough  (I  was  going  to  say, 
brutal)  honesty;  both  showed  no  quarter  to  shams;  both  had 
marvellous  good  opinions  of  themselves ;  and  both  were  chary 
of  their  praises  of  others. 

Following  the  Dedication  is  the  Address  of  the  editors,  John 
Heminge  and  Henrie  Condell,  To  the  great  Variety  of  Readers. 
The  2d  paragraph  of  this  address  is  notable  :  "  It  had  bene  a 
thing,  we  confesse,  worthie  to  have  bene  wished,  that  the  Author 
himselfe  had  liv'd  to  have  set  forth,  and  overseen  his  owne  writ- 
ings ;  *  But  since  it  hath  bin  ordain'd  otherwise,  and  he  by  death 
departed  from  that  right,  we  pray  you  do  not  envie  his  Friends, 
the  office  of  their  care,  and  paine,  to  have  collected  &  publish'd 
them  ;  and  so  to  have  publish'd  them,  as  where  (before)  you  were 
abus'df  with  diverse  stolne,  and  surreptitious  copies, \  maimed,  and 


*  There  seems  to  be  implied  here  the  supposition  on  the  part  of  the  Editors, 
that  Shakespeare,  if  his  life  had  been  prolonged,  would  have  "  set  forth  and 
overseen  his  own  writings."  And  there  is  good  evidence  that  his  death  was 
sudden  and  unexpected.  t  deceived. 

\  The  (in  most  cases,  no  doubt)  unauthorized  and  pirated  quarto  editions 
of  Shakespeare's  Plays,  published  during  his  lifetime,  are  referred  to  here. 
Sixteen  Plays  were  so  published,  some  of  them  in  two  or  more  editions,  namely, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Richard  II.,  Richard  III.,  I  Henry  IV.,  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Merchant  of  Venice, 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO.          43 

deformed  by  the  frauds  and  stealthes  of  injurious  impostors,  that 
expos'd  them  :  *  even  those,  are  now  offer'd  to  your  view  cur'd,  and 
perfect  of  their  limbes  ;  and  all  the  rest,  absolute  in  their  numbers, 
as  he  conceived  the.  Who,  as  he  was  a  happie  imitator  of  Nature, 
was  a  most  gentle  expresser  of  it.  His  mind  and  hand  went 
together :  And  what  he  thought,  he  uttered  with  that  easinesse, 
that  wee  have  scarse  received  from  him  a  blot  f  in  his  papers." 
The  knowledge  we  have  of  Heminge  and  Condell,  is,  as  far  as  it 


2  Henry  IV.,  Henry  V.,  Titus  Andronicus,  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Hamlet, 
King  Lear,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  Pericles.  Othello  was  published  in  1622. 
Eighteen  Plays  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  the  Folio  of  1623,  for  which  we 
are  indebted  to  Heminge  and  Condell,  some  of  them  being  the  greatest  of 
Shakespeare's  Plays,  for  example,  Julius  Gesar,  Macbeth,  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra, Coriolanus,  The  Tempest,  The  Winter's  Tale.  But  for  their  pious  care, 
these  greatest  of  human  productions  may  have  been  lost  to  the  world. 

*  i.e.,  for  sale. 

f  Erasure.  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  "Timber;  or,  Discoveries,  etc.,"  says:  "I 
remember,  the  Players  Lave  often  mentioned  it  as  an  honour  to  Shakespeare, 
that  in  his  writing  (whatsoever  he  penn'd)  hee  never  blotted  out  line.  My 
answer  hath  beene,  would  he  had  blotted  a  thousand.  Which  they  thought 
a  malevolent  speech.  I  had  not  told  posterity  this,  but  for  their  ignorance, 
who  choose  that  circumstance  to  commend  their  friend  by,  wherein  he  most 
faulted.  And  to  justifie  mine  owne  candor,  (for  I  lov'd  the  man,  and  doe 
honour  his  memory  (on  this  side  Idolatry)  as  much  as  any).  He  was  (indeed) 
honest,  and  of  an  open,  and  free  nature :  had  an  excellent  Phantsie ;  brave 
notions,  and  gentle  expressions:  wherein  hee  flow'd  with  that  facility,  that 
sometime  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stop'd:  Sttfflaminandus  erat ;  as 
Augustus  said  of  Hateritis.  His  wit  was  in  his  own  power;  would  the  rule 
of  it  had  beene  so  too.  Many  times  hee  fell  into  those  things,  could  not 
escape  laughter :  As  when  hee  said  in  the  person  of  Caesar,  one  speaking  to 
him;  Ctzsar  thou  dost  me  -wrong.  Hee  replyed:  Casar  did  never  -wrong,  but 
"with  just  cause  :  and  such  like;  which  were  ridiculous.  But  he  redeemed  his 
vices,  with  his  virtues.  There  was  ever  more  in  him  to  be  praysed,  then  to  be 
pardoned."  Mr.  Halliwell-Phillipps  remarks  ("  Life  of  Shakespeare,"  1848,  p. 
185),  "If  -wrong  is  taken  in  the  sense  of  injury  or  harm,  as  Shakespeare 
sometimes  uses  it,  there  is  no  absurdity  in  this  line."  It  is  not  unlikely  that 
Ben  Jonson  had  a  hand  both  in  the  Dedication  and  in  the  Address  "  To  the 
great  Variety  of  Readers."  There  can  be  but  little  doubt  of  this  in  regard  to 
the  latter.  See  the  "Variorum"  of  1821,  Vol.  II.  pp.  663-675. 


44          THE  AUTHENTICITY   OF   THE   FIRST  FOLIO. 

goes,  of  the  most  authentic  character,  being  derived  from  contem- 
porary works  and  legal  documents.  They  were  both  men  of  high 
standing  in  their  profession,  ranking,  as  it  appears,  next  to  Rich- 
ard Burbadge,  as  actors.  They  both,  especially  Condell,  appear  to 
have  been  held  in  the  highest  esteem  by  their  theatrical  associates. 
Their  Wills  show  them  to  have  possessed  considerable  property, 
to  have  had  strict  business  habits,  and  great  uprightness  of  charac- 
ter, and  to  have  been  affectionate  husbands  and  fathers.  Shake- 
speare honored  them  along  with  Richard  Burbadge,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  his  regard,  in  the  following  Item  of  his  will : 

"  I  gyve  and  bequeath  .  .  .  to  my  fellowes  John  Hemynges, 
Richard  Burbage,  and  Henry  Cundell  xxvis  viijd  a  peece  to  buy 
them  ringes" 

We  learn  from  the  First  Folio  edition  of  Ben  Jonson's  Works, 
published  in  1616,  that  they  both  had  parts  in  the  following  Plays, 
when  they  were  first  acted :  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  in 
1598;  "  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour,"  in  1599;  "Sejanus 
his  Fall,"  in  1603;  "Volpone,  or  the  Foxe,"  in  1605;  "The 
Alchemist,"  in  1610;  "Catiline  his  Conspiracy,"  in  1611. 

"  In  some  tract,  of  which  I  have  forgot  to  preserve  the  title," 
says  Malone,  in  his  "  Historical  Account  of  the  English  Stage," 
"  he  [John  Heminge]  is  said  to  have  been  the  original  performer 
of  Falstaff." 

Condell  had  parts  in  a  number  of  the  Plays  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher;  in  "The  Captain,"  "Bonduca,"  " The  Knight  of  Malta," 
" Valentinian,"  "The  Queen  of  Corinth,"  "The  Loyal  Subject," 
and  "  The  Mad  Lover  " ;  and  he  played  the  Cardinal  in  Webster's 
"  Duchess  of  Mam." 

Heminge  died  (it  is  supposed  of  the  plague)  in  October,  1630; 
and  Condell,  in  December,  1627.* 


*  See  "  Memoirs  of  the  Principal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare." 
By  J.  Payne  Collier,  Esq.,  F.S.A.;  "On  the  Actor  Lists,"  1578-1642.  By  F. 
G.  Fleay,  M.A.  (contained  in  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Historical  Society, 
Vol.  IX.)  ;  John  Marston's  Works,  ed.  Bullen,  Vol.  I.  ;  "  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,"  edited  by  Leslie  Stephen.  Vol.  XI.  Art.  Condell 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE   FIRST  FOLIO.         45 

After  the  Address,  in  the  First  Folio,  To  the  great  Variety  of 
Readers,  come  Ben  Jonson's  lines,  already  given,  pp.  5-8.     Then 
follow   commendatory    verses    by    Hugh    Holland,*    L[eonard] 
Digges,f  and  I.  M.|     Those  by  Hugh  Holland,  speak  of  "the 
dainty  Playes,  which  made  the  Globe  of  heav'n  and  earth  to  ring." 

Those  by  Leonard  Digges  are  worthy  to  be  quoted  entire  : 

Shake-speare,  at  length  thy  pious  fellowes  giue 

The  world  thy  Workes  :  thy  Workes   by  which,  out-Hue 


*  ...  "born  at  Denbigh,  bred  in  Westminster  School,  while  Camden 
taught  there,  elected  into  Trinity  College  in  Cambridge,  an.  1589,  of  which  he 
was  afterwards  Fellow.  Thence  he  went  to  travel  into  Italy,  .  .  .  Thence  he 
went  to  Jerusalem  to  do  his  devotions  to  the  holy  Sepulcher,  and  in  his  return 
touch'd  at  Constantinople,  ...  At  his  return  into  England,  he  retired  to  Oxon  ; 
spent  some  years  there  as  a  Sojourner  for  the  sake  of  the  public  Library,  .  .  . 
He  is  observed  by  a  Cambridge  man  [Thos.  Fuller,  in  his  Worthies  of  Eng- 
land, in  Wales,  p.  16]  to  have  been  no  bad  English,  but  an  excellent  Latin 
Poet,  .  .  .  He  died.  .  .  in  sixteen  hundred  thirty  and  three;  .  .  ." 

—  Anthony  Wood's  "Athenoe  Oxonienses,"  1721,  Vol.  I.  p.  583. 

t "  Leonard  Digges  .  .  .  was  born  in  London,  became  a  Commoner  of 
Univ.  Coll.  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1603,  aged  15,  took  the  degree  of 
Bac.  of  Arts,  retired  to  the  great  City  for  the  present,  afterwards  travelled 
into  several  Countries,  and  became  an  accomplished  Person.  Some  years 
after  his  return  he  retired  to  his  Coll.  again,  and  upon  his  supplication  made 
to  the  venerable  Convocation,  he  was,  in  consideration  that  he  had  spent 
many  years  in  good  letters  in  transmarine  Universities,  actually  created  M.  of 
A.  in  1626.  He  was  esteemed  by  those  who  knew  him  in  Univ.  Coll.  a  great 
Master  of  the  English  language,  a  perfect  understander  of  the  French  and 
Spanish,  a  good  Poet  and  no  mean  Orator.  .  .  .  He  died  on  the  7th  of  Apr. 
in  sixteen  hundred  thirty  and  five,  .  .  .  Several  verses  of  his  composition 
.  I  have  seen  printed  in  the  beginning  of  various  Authors,  particularly  those 
before  Shakespear's  Works,  which  shew  him  to  have  been  an  eminent  Poet 
of  his  time."  —  Anthony  Wood's  "Athense  Oxonienses,"  1721,  Vol.  I.  p.  599. 

"  His  translation  of  Claudian's  Rape  of  Proserpine  was  entered  on  the 
Stationers'  books,  Oct.  4,  1617."  —  Steevens.  It  was  printed  in  the  same  year. 

|  It  is  not  known  for  whose  name  these  initials  stand.  Claims  have  been 
made  for  John  Marston,  Jasper  Mayne,  and  James  Mabbe.  See  "  Shakespeare's 
Centurie  of  Prayse,"  2cl  ed.  p.  155,  and  Notes  and  Queries,  2d  S.  XI.  4. 


46  THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO, 

Thy  Tombe,  thy  name  must :  When  that  stone  is  rent, 

And  Time  dissolues  thy  Stratford  Moniment,* 

Here  we  aliue  shall  view  thee  still.     This  Booke, 

When  Brasse  and  Marble  fade,  shall  make  thee  looke 

Fresh  to  all  Ages  :  when  Posteritie 

Shall  loath  what's  new,  thinke  all  is  prodegie 

That  is  not  Shake-speares ;  eu'ry  Line,  each  Verse 

Here  shall  reuiue,  redeeme  thee  from  thy  Herse. 

Nor  Fire,  nor  cankring  Age,  as  Naso  said, 

Of  his,  thy  wit-fraught  Booke  shall  once  inuade. 

Nor  shall  I  e'er  beleeue,  or  thinke  thee  dead 

(Though  mist)  vntill  our  bankrout  Stage  be  sped 

(Impossible)  with  some  new  straine  t'  out-do 

Passions  of  luliet,  and  her  Romeo  ; 

Or  till  I  heare  a  Scene  more  nobly  take, 

Then  when  thy  half-Sword  parrying  Romans  spake. 

Till  these,  till  any  of  thy  Volumes  rest 

Shall  with  more  fire,  more  feeling  be  exprest, 

Be  sure,  our  Shake-speare,  thou  canst  neuer  dye, 

But  crown'd  with  Lawrell,  Hue  eternally." 

See  Leonard  Digges's  Verses,  prefixed  to  the  1640  edition  of 
Shakespeare's  Poems,  quoted  in  the  criticism  on  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing,  p.  178. 

The  verses  by  I.  M.,  To  the  memorie  of  Mr.  W.  Shake-speare, 
appear  to  indicate,  the  first  two  of  them,  that  Shakespeare's  death 
was  unexpected,  and  occasioned  surprise.  The  histrionic  metaphor 
involved  throughout  the  verses,  is  interesting : 

"Wee  wondred  (Shake-speare)  that  thou  went'st  so  soone 
From  the  Worlds-Stage,  to  the  Graues-Tyring  roome. 
Wee  thought  thee  dead,  but  this  thy  printed  worth, 
Tels  thy  Spectators,  that  thou  went'st  but  forth 


*Here  it  appears  that  the  monument  in  the  Stratford  Church  had  been 
erected  in  the  interval  between  the  death  of  Shakespeare  and  the  publication 
of  the  First  Folio  —  by  order,  without  question,  of  Dr.  John  Hall  and  his  wife 
Susanna,  Shakespeare's  eldest  daughter,  who  were  appointed  executors  of  his 
last  will  and  testament. 


THE  AUTHENTICITY  OF  THE  FIRST  FOLIO.         47 

To  enter  with  applause.    An  Actors  Art, 
Can  dye,  and  Hue,  to  acte  a  second  part. 
That's  but  an  Exit  of  Mortalitie  ; 
This,  a  Re-entrance  to  a  Plaudite."  * 


*  Latin  imperative  pi.,  "  applaud,  or  clap,  ye,"  pronounced  to  the  audience 
by  the  actors  or  the  Epilogue,  at  the  conclusion  of  a  play.  Generally  the 
words,  Vos  valete,  et  plaudite,  "  Farewell,  and  applaud,"  were  used.  See  Plays 
of  Terence,  at  the  end. 


48  CHRONOLOGY   OF   THE  PLAYS. 


CHRONOLOGY   OF   THE   PLAYS. 


IT  has  been  a  special  object  of  Shakespearian  study,  of  late  years, 
to  determine,  so  far  as  it  can  be  determined,  the  chronologi- 
cal order  of  the  Plays,  with  the  ulterior  object  of  tracing  the  devel- 
opment of  the  poet's  dramatic  art,  and  his  own  individual  growth  ; 
in  other  words,  of  studying  his  works  in  their  totality,  and  with 
reference  to  the  personality  of  which  they  are  a  manifestation. 
That  chronological  order  has  been  settled  as  conclusively  as  it 
can,  perhaps,  ever  be,  and  the  results  toward  the  realization  of  the 
ulterior  object  I  have  named,  are  already  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance. Of  these  results,  Professor  Dowden's  "  Shakspere :  a 
critical  study  of  his  Mind  and  Art/'  is,  perhaps,  the  best  expres- 
sion. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  great  author,  whose  growth  can  be  more 
distinctly  traced  through  his  works,  than  can  Shakespeare's,  from 
the  period  of  his  apprenticeship,  when  he  retouched  and  recon- 
structed old  plays,  and  tried  his  hand  cautiously  at  original  work 
—  that  period  being  represented  by  such  plays  as  the  ist,  2d,  and 
3d  parts  of  Henry  VI.,  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  The  Comedy  of  Errors, 
and  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  —  up  to  the  period  of  his  full 
development  and  ripeness,  represented  by  his  great  tragedies, 
Othello,  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  Antony  and  Cleopatra  and,  finally, 
the  Plays  now  usually  called  Romances  (characterized  as  they  all 
are  by  romantic  elements),  Cymbeline,  The  Tempest,  and  The 
Winter's  Tale.  Between  the  earliest  and  the  latest  work,  is  a 
period  of  twenty- two  or  twenty-three  years,  say  from  1590  or  '91 
to  1612  or  '13;  and  the  steady  and  healthy  growth  traceable 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  PLAYS. 


49 


throughout  this  period  bears  testimony  that  the  vigorous  vitality 
of  the  author  was  maintained  to  the  end. 

The  evidence  which  has  been  brought  to  bear  upon  the  dates 
of  composition  of  the  several  plays,  is  chiefly  of  three  kinds : 
i.  That  which  is  wholly  external.  2.  That  which  is  partly  external 
and  partly  internal.  3.  That  which  is  wholly  internal. 

Edmund  Malone,  the  latest  of  the  Shakespeare  editors  of  the 
1 8th  century,  first  undertook  systematically  to  settle  the  chron- 
ology of  the  Plays ;  and  the  result  of  his  investigations  was  first 
published  in  1778,  in  an  Essay  entitled  "An  Attempt  to  ascertain 
the  order  in  which  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare  were  written."  He 
confined  himself  chiefly  to  the  ist  and  2d  kinds  of  evidence, 
namely,  that  which  is  wholly  external,  and  that  which  is  partly 
external  and  partly  internal  (meaning  by  the  latter,  "  supposed  al- 
lusions in  the  Plays,  to  contemporary  circumstances  and  events  "). 
Of  the  first  kind  are  "  the  dates  of  the  quarto  editions  of  some  of 
the  Plays,  entries  in  the  Register  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  and 
references  to  the  Plays  in  contemporary  books  or  manuscripts." 

These  several  kinds  of  evidence  served  to  reach  an  approximate 
chronological  order  upon  which  could  be  based  the  third  kind  of 
evidence,  namely,  that  which  is  wholly  internal  (furnished  by  the 
verse),  and  which  has  served  to  rectify  considerably  the  conclu- 
sions arrived  at,  from  the  other  kinds  of  evidence. 

It  should  be  stated  that  Malone  recognized  the  verse  test, 
especially  rhyme.  He  frequently  alludes  to  it.  In  treating  of  the 
date  of  composition  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  he  notes  "  the  fre- 
quent rhymes  with  which  it  abounds,  of  which,  in  his  [Shake- 
speare's] early  performances,  he  seems  to  have  been  extremely 
fond."  To  this  remark  he  appends  a  long  note,  in  which  he  an- 
ticipates much  that  has  been  set  forth,  of  late  years,  in  regard  to 
the  rhyme  test.  ,  Under  Romeo  and  Juliet,  he  speaks  of  rhyming 
as  "  a  practice  from  which  he  [Shakespeare]  gradually  departed, 
though  he  never  wholly  deserted  it."  Under  Cymbeline,  he  says, 
"  The  versification  of  this  play  bears,  I  think,  a  much  greater  re- 


50  CHRONOLOGY  OF   THE  PLAYS. 

semblance  to  that  of  The  Winter's  Tale  and  The  Tempest,  than  to 
any  of  our  author's  earlier  plays." 

The  first  valuable  contribution  to  the  study  of  the  verse  was  a 
little  volume,  published  anonymously  in  1857  (the  author  was  a 
Mr.  Bathurst)  and  entitled  "  Remarks  on  the  Differences  in  Shake- 
speare's Versification  in  different  periods  of  his  life,  and  on  the 
like  points  of  difference  in  Poetry  generally."  Though  in  some 
respects  a  pioneer  work,  it  maps  out,  with  great  sagacity,  the 
whole  subject,  which  has  since  been  so  minutely  worked  up  by 
several  members  of  the  New  Shakspere  Society  of  London. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 


SHAKESPEARE'S   VERSE. 


WHEN  Shakespeare  began  to  write,  blank  verse  had  not  yet 
reached,  was  very  far  from  havin^reacnea,  that  devel- 
opment which  adapted  it  to  the  highest  dramatic  purposes. 
It  owed  its  earliest  form  to  the  rhyming  pentameter  couplet. 
Rhyme  imparts  an  emphasis  to  the^n^^f^lTverse  and  pre- 
sents a  check  more  or  less  strong,  to  the  flowing  of  one  verse 
[  into  another.  The  consequence  is,  that,  in  rhymed  verse, 
jthe  thought  is  more  or  less  obliged  to  move  within  prescribed 
limits.  It  is  sectioned  off  by  the  metre,  and  pause-emphasis 
and  pause-melody  are  thereby  more  precluded  than  in  free  blank 
verse. _/But  in  the  earliest  blank  verse  in  the  literature,  Lord 
Surrey's  translation  of  the  2d  and  4th  Books  of  Virgil's  ^Eneid 
(about  1540),  fashioned  as  it  was,  upon  rhyming  verse,  the  melody 
resulting  from  variety  of  pause  is  a  minimum.  George  P.  Marsh 
says  of  Surrey's  blank  verse,  that  it  "  is  very  often  quite  undistin- 
guishable  from  common  prose."  But  the  fact  is,  that  the  reader  is 
kept  all  the  time  too  conscious  of  the  metrical  bondage  to  which 
the  thought  is  subjected.  We  do  not  find,  in  the  words  of  Milton, 
"  the  sense  variously  drawn  out  from  one  verse  into  another."/>Tt 
is  presumed  that  in  the  material  for  which  blank  verse  is  a  proper 
vehicle,  there  is  preserved  a  certain  equilibrium  of  thought  and 
feeling,  the  former  being  more  generally  in  the  ascendant,  and 
such  material  would  therefore  be  bondaged  by  the  cyclic  move- 
ment which,  to  material  containing  a  predominance  of  feeling  over 
thought,  would  not  be  bondage  at  all  but  would  be  the  movement 
which  it  would  naturally  seek  for  itself.  Thought  tends  toward  a 
straightforward  movement  —  toward  what  the  Anglo-Saxons  called 


52  SHAKESPEARE 'S    VERSE, 

fordiiht  sprcec  •  that  is,  forthright  speech,  straightforward  speech  ; 
(that,  in  fact,  is  what  our  Latin  word  prose  means  :  prorsa  oratio, 
contracted  form  of  proversa,  turned  forward,  or  straightforward 
speech)  :  *  feeling  must  revolve,  must  return  upon  itself;  when 
strong,  it  is  importunate  to  do  so. 

The  following  bit  from  the  description  of  the  serpents  that 
attacked  Laocoon  after  he  had  hurled  his  spear  against  the  side 
of  the  wooden  horse,  will  serve  to  illustrate  the  general  character 
of  Surrey's  blank  verse. 

"  Whiles  Laocon,  that  chosen  was  by  lot 
Neptimus  priest,  did  sacrifice  a  bull 
Before  the  holy  altar,  sodenly 
From  Tenedon,  behold  !  in  circles  great 
By  the  calm  seas  come  fletyng  f  adders  twaine, 
Which  plied  towardes  the  shore  (I  lothe  to  tell) 
With  rered  brests  lift  up  above  the  seas : 
Whose  bloody  crestes  aloft  the  waves  were  seen : 
The  hinder  parte  swamme  hidden  in  the  flood : 
Their  grisly  backes  were  linked  manifold  : 
With  sound  of  broken  waves  they  gate  the  strand,  \ 
With  gloing  eyen,  tainted  with  blood  and  fire  : 
Whose  waltring  §  tongs  did  lick  their  hissing  mouthes. 
We  fled  away,  our  face  the  blood  forsoke. 
But  they  with  gate  direct  ||  to  Lacon  ran. 
And  first  of  all  eche  serpent  doth  enwrap 
The  bodies  small  of  his  two  tender  sonnes : 
Whose  wretched  limmes  they  byt,  and  fed  thereon. 
Then  raught  they  hym,  who  had  his  wepon  caught 
To  rescue  them,  twise  winding  him  about, 
With  folded  knottes,  and  circled  tailes,  his  waist. 
Their  scaled  backes  did  compasse  twise  his  neck, 
Wyth  rered  heddes  aloft,  and  stretched  throtes. 
He  with  his  handes  strave  to  onloose  the  knottes : 
Whose  sacred  fillettes  all  be-sprinkled  were 


*  "That  prose  is  derived  from  Lai.  uersus,  whence  E.  verse,  is  remark- 
able." —  Skeat.  t  floating. 

\  reached  the  shore.  §  rolling.  ||  direct  path,  agmine  certo. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  $3 

With  filth  of  gory  blood  and  venim  rank. 

And  to  the  sterres  such  dredfull  shoutes  he  sent, 

Like  to  the  sound  the  roring  bull  fourth  loowes, 

Which  from  the  halter  wounded  doth  astart, 

The  swarving  axe  when  he  shakes  from  his  neck." 

It  will  be  perceived  how  servilely  the  thought  moves  within  the 
limits  of  the  metre.  And  an  impression  is  got,  too,  of  merely  a 
succession  of  verses :  a  list  of  verses  :  they  do  not  run  into  each 
other  and  form  a  system  ;  there's  a  pause  at  the  end  of  each,  and 
they  resemble  couplets  deprived  of  their  rhymes.  There's  none 
of  the  sweep  —  of  the  elasticity,  to  which  blank  verse  fifty  or  sixty 
years  later  attained. 

The  Tragedy  of  Gorboduc,  otherwise  known  as  Ferrex  and 
Porrex,  the  first  three  acts  of  which  were  written  by  Thomas 
Sackville,  first  Lord  Buckhurst,  appeared  a  little  more  than  a 
score  of  years  after  Surrey's  Translation  of  Virgil.  It  is  the  ear- 
liest English  drama  of  any  kind  written  in  blank  verse.  The  verse 
shows  a  considerable  improvement  upon  Surrey's,  in  smoothness 
and  in  variety  of  pause ;  but,  as  a  general  thing,  the  thought  is 
metre-bound.  The  speeches  are  long  and  read  too  much  as  if 
they  had  been  prepared  beforehand  by  the  several  speakers,  and 
the  dialogue  is,  as  a  consequence,  not  very  dramatic.  The  follow- 
ing speech  of  King  Gorboduc  to  his  counsellors,  in  the  opening  of 
Act  I.  Scene  2,  affords  a  fair  specimen  of  the  general  tenor  of  the 
verse.  He  is  urging  the  importance  of  a  proper  training  of  the 
princes  for  future  rule  : 

"  My  lords,  whose  grave  advice  and  faithful  aid 
Have  long  upheld  my  honour  and  my  realm, 
And  brought  me  to  this  age  from  tender  years, 
Guiding  so  great  estate  with  great  renown : 
Now  more  importeth  me  than  erst,  to  use 
Your  faith  and  wisdom  whereby  yet  I  reign  ; 
That  when  by  death  my  life  and  rule  shall  cease, 
The  kingdom  yet  may  with  unbroken  course 
Have  certain  prince,  by  whose  undoubted  right 


54  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

Your  wealth  and  peace  may  stand  in  quiet  stay : 
And  eke  that  they  whom  nature  hath  prepared, 
In  time  to  take  my  place  in  princely  seat, 
While  in  their  father's  time  their  pliant  youth 
Yields  to  the  frame  of  skilful  governance, 
May  be  so  taught,  and  trained  in  noble  arts, 
As,  what  their  fathers  which  have  reigned  before 
Have  with  great  fame  derived  down  to  them, 
With  honour  they  may  leave  unto  their  seed : 
And  not  be  thought  for  their  unworthy  life, 
And  for  their  lawless  swerving  out  of  kind, 
Worthy  to  lose  what  law  and  kind  them  gave ; 
But  that  they  may  preserve  the  common  peace, 
(The  cause  that  first  began  and  still  maintains 
The  lineal  course  of  king's  inheritance) 
For  me,  for  mine,  for  you,  and  for  the  State 
Whereof  both  I  and  you  have  charge  and  care. 
Thus  do  I  mean  to  use  your  wonted  faith 
To  me  and  mine  and  to  your  native  land. 
My  lords,  be  plain  without  all  wry  respect, 
Or  poisonous  craft  to  speak  in  pleasing  wise, 
Lest  as  the  blame  of  ill-succeeding  things 
Shall  light  on  you,  so  light  the  harms  also." 

The  movement  of  the  verses  is  considerably  freer  than  Surrey's 
and  they  are  more  sequacious  —  have  more  continuity,  more  go. 

In  all  the  early  blank  verse,  a  substitute,  it  would  seem,  was  felt 
to  be  necessary,  by  its  several  writers,  whose  ears  were  accustomed 
to  the  enforcement  imparted  to  the  close  of  verses  by  rhyme.  As 
the  ear  became  accustomed  to  the  absence  of  rhyme,  and  the  prog- 
ress of  the  verse  became  freer  and  more  melodious,  the  strong 
word  or  syllable  at  the  end  of  the  line,  was  less  solicited. 

When,  in  tracing  the  development  of  blank  verse,  we  come  to 
Marlowe,  we  find  a  great  advance  upon  all  that  had  been  previously 
produced.  Though  the  thought  is  restricted  more  or  less  to  met- 
rical limits,  there  is  a  far  greater  freedom  and  grace  of  movement 
within  those  limits.  The  individual  verse  is  more  melodiously  j 
fused ;  and  the  ear  is,  in  consequence,  more  engaged  with  the  prog-  \ 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  55 

ress  of  the  verse  than  with  its  close ;  and  this  being  the  case,  the 
sequence  of  the  verses  is  felt  to  be  more  fluent  than  in  the  case 
of  verses  less  melodious  in  movement  and  with  a  more  strongly 
marked  close. 

Marlowe's  earliest  play,  "Tamburlane  the  Great,"  is  characterized 
by  bombast,  rant,  and  brag ;  but  these  are  to  some  extent  atoned 
for  by  the,  at  times,  splendid  vigor  of  the  verse.  In  his  best  play, 
"  Edward  II.,"  there  is  more  self- restraint,  and  we  meet  with  verse 
quite  equal  to  the  verse  of  Shakespeare's  second  period  of  author- 
ship. 

Take,  for  example,  the  speech  of  young  Mortirner,  in  regard  >to 
the  king's  favorite,  Gaveston  : 

"  Uncle,  his  wanton  humour  grieves  not  me  ; 
But  this  I  scorn,  that  one  so  basely  born, 
Should  by  his  sovereign's  favour  grow  so  pert, 
And  riot  it  with  the  treasure  of  the  realm. 
While  soldiers  mutiny  for  want  of  pay, 
He  wears  a  lord's  revenue  on  his  back, 
And,  Midas-like,  he  jets  it  in  the  court, 
With  base  outlandish  cullions  at  his  heels, 
Whose  proud  fantastic  liveries  make  such  show, 
As  if  that  Proteus,  god  of  shapes,  appeared. 
I  have  not  seen  a  dapper-Jack  so  brisk ; 
He  wears  a  short  Italian  hooded-cloak, 
Larded  with  pearl,  and,  in  his  Tuscan  cap, 
A  jewel  of  more  value  than  the  crown. 
While  others  walk  below,  the  King  and  he 
From  out  a  window  laugh  at  such  as  we, 
And  flout  our  train,  and  jest  at  our  attire. 
Uncle,  'tis  this  makes  me  impatient."  —A.  I.  Sc.  iv. 

Young  Mortimer  receives  letters  from  Scotland  informing  him 
that  his  uncle  is  taken  prisoner  by  the  Scots  ;  with  which,  when  he 
acquaints  the  king,  he  gets  simply  "  Then  ransom  him  "  for  a 

reply. 

"  Y.  Mortimer.    My  Lord,  the  family  of  the  Mortimers 
Are  not  so  poor,  but,  would  they  sell  their  land, 


56  SHAKESPEARE? S    VERSE. 

'Twould  levy  men  enough  to  anger  you. 

We  never  beg,  but  use  such  prayers  as  these. 

******** 

The  idle  triumphs,  masks,  lascivious  shows 
And  prodigal  gifts  bestowed  on  Gaveston, 
Have  drawn  thy  treasury  dry,  and  made  thee  weak ; 
The  murmuring  commons,  overstretched,  break. 


The  haughty  Dane  commands  the  narrow  seas, 
While  in  the  harbour  ride  thy  ships  unrigged. 
Thy  court  is  naked,  being  bereft  of  those 
That  make  a  king  seem  glorious  to  the  world ; 
I  mean  the  peers  whom  thou  shouldst  dearly  love. 
******** 
When  wert  thou  in  the  field  with  banners  spread? 
But  once :  and  then  thy  soldiers  march1  cl  like  players, 
With  garish  robes,  not  armour ;  and  thyself, 
Bedaub'd  with  gold,  rode  laughing  at  the  rest, 
Nodding  and  shaking  of  thy  spangled  crest, 
Where  women's  favours  hung  like  labels  down." 

In  the  36  Scene  of  the  2d  Act,  Gaveston  is  represented  as 
frolicking  with  the  king  at  Tynemouth.  The  nobles  resolve  on  a 
surprise  : 

"K  Mortimer.   I'll  give  the  onset. 
Warwick.   And  I'll  follow  thee. 
Y.  Mortimer.   This  tattered  ensign  of  my  ancestors, 
Which  swept  the  desert  shore  of  that  dead  sea, 
Whereof  we  got  the  name  of  Mortimer, 
Will  I  advance  upon  this  castle's  walls. 
Drums  strike  alarum,  raise  them  from  their  sport, 
And  ring  aloud  the  knell  of  Gaveston." 

There  is  often  a  dashing  vigor  in  some  of  young  Mortimer's 
speeches  almost  equal  to  that  of  some  of  the  speeches  of  Hotspur 
in  i  Henry  IV.,  but  it  does  not  bear  with  it  an  equal  weight 
of  thought. 


SHAKESPEARE S    VERSE.  57 

Much  of  the  verse  of  Marlowe's  "  Dido,  Queen  of  Carthage," 
is  very  beautiful  of  its  kind  : 

"  Then  he  unlocked  the  horse,  and  suddenly 
From  out  his  entrails,  Neoptolemus, 
Setting  his  spear  upon  the  ground,  leapt  forth, 
And  after  him  a  thousand  Grecians  more, 
In  whose  stern  faces  shined  the  quenchless  fire, 
That  after  burnt  the  pride  of  Asia." 

^Eneas  is  urging  the  necessity  of  his  leaving  Carthage  : 

"  Let  my  Phaenissa  grant  and  then  I  go. 
Grant  she  or  no,  ^neas  must  away ; 
Whose  golden  fortune,  clogged  with  courtly  ease, 
Cannot  ascend  to  Fame's  immortal  house, 
Or  banquet  in  bright  Honour's  burnished  hall, 
Till  he  has  furrowed  Neptune's  glassy  fields, 
And  cut  a  passage  through  his  topless  hills." 

But  the  garment  is  at  best  slightly  too  big  for  the  thought. 

"Dido,   /Eneas,  I'll  repair  thy  Trojan  ships, 
Conditionally  that  thou  wilt  stay  with  me, 
And  let  Achates  sail  to  Italy : 
I'll  give  thee  tackling  made  of  rivelled  gold, 
Wound  on  the  barks  of  odoriferous  trees, 
Oars  *  of  massy  ivory,  full  of  holes, 
Through  which  the  water  shall  delight  to  play ; 
Thy  anchors  shall  be  hewed  from  crystal  rocks, 
Which,  if  thou  loose,  shall  shine  above  the  waves ; 
The  masts  whereon  thy  swelling  sails  shall  hang, 
Hollow  pyramides  of  silver  plate : 
The  sails  of  folded  lawn,  where  shall  be  wrought 
The  wars  of  Troy,  but  not  Troy's  overthrow. 
For  ballace,  empty  Dido's  treasury ; 
Take  what  ye  will,  but  leave  /Eneas  here. 
Achates,  thou  shalt  be  so  newly  clad, 


Dissyllabic. 


58  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

As  sea-born  nymphs  shall  swarm  about  thy  ships, 
And  wanton  mermaids  court  thee  with  sweet  songs, 
Flinging  in  favours  of  more  sovereign  worth 
Than  Thetis  hangs  about  Apollo's  neck, 
So  that  ^Eneas  may  but  stay  with  me." 

The  play  contains  single  lines  of  great  grace ;  such  as 
'*  The  air  is  clear,  and  southern  winds  are  whist." 

But  Marlowe's  thought,  even  when  freest,  rarely  transgresses 
the  bounds  of  metre,  and  the  dramatic  capabilities  of  blank  verse 
are  consequently  but  imperfectly  realized  in  his  Plays.  But  within 
those  bounds,  his  thought  has  a  remarkable  ease  and  grace  of 
movement. 

Great  as  is  the  praise  due  to  Marlowe's  blank  verse,  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  entitled  to  that  bestowed  upon  it  by  an  able  writer  in 
The  Cornhill Magazine,  vol.  xv.  p.  622.  The  merits  he  attributes 
to  it  are  rather  those  of  Shakespeare's  blank  verse,  in  its  highest 
recitative  form,  as  exhibited  in  i  Henry  IV.  The  passages  he 
selects  from  Doctor  Faustus,  Edward  the  Second,  Tamburlane, 
and  the  Jew  of  Malta,  do  not  support  his  eulogies.  After  giving  a 
specimen  of  the  blank  verse  of  the  tragedy  of  Gorboduc,  by  Sack- 
ville  and  Norton,  he  says  :  "  Mr.  Collier,  in  his  '  History  of  Dra- 
matic Poetry,'  mentions  two  other  plays  written  in  blank  verse,  but 
not  performed  on  the  public  stage,  before  the  appearance  of  Mar- 
lowe's '  Tamburlane.'  It  is  to  this  tragedy  that  he  assigns  the 
credit  of  having  once  and  for  all  established  blank  verse  as  the 
popular  dramatic  metre  of  the  English.  With  this  opinion  all 
students  who  have  examined  the  origin  of  our  theatrical  literature 
will,  no  doubt,  agree.  But  Marlowe  did  not  merely  drive  the 
rhymed  couplet  from  the  stage  by  substituting  the  blank  verse  of 
his  contemporaries :  he  created  a  new  metre  by  the  melody, 
variety,  and  force  which  he  infused  into  the  iambic,  and  left 
models  of  versification,  the  pomp  and  gorgeousness  of  which 
Shakespeare  and  Milton  alone  can  be  said  to  have  surpassed.  The 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  59 

change  which  he  operated  was  so  thorough  and  so  novel  to  the 
playwrights  as  well  as  the  playgoers  of  his  time,  that  he  met  with 
some  determined  opposition.  Thomas  Nash  spoke  scornfully  of 
'  idiot  art  masters,  that  intrude  themselves  to  our  ears  as  the  alche- 
mists of  eloquence,  who  (mounted  on  the  stage  of  arrogance)  think 
to  attract  better  pens  with  the  swelling  bombast  of  bragging  blank 
verse.'  In  another  sneer  he  described  the  new  measure  as  '  the 
spacious  volubility  of  a  drumming  decasyllabon ' ;  while  Robert 
Greene,  who  had  written  many  wearisome  rhymed  dramas,  talked 
of  making  '  verses  jet  on  the  stage  in  tragical  buskins,  every  word 
filling  the  ear  like  the  fa-burden  of  Bow  bell,  daring  God  out  of 
heaven  with  that  atheist,  Tamburlan,  or  blaspheming  with  the  mad 
priest  of  the  Sun.'  But  our  'licentiate  iambic '  was  destined  to 
triumph.  Greene  and  Nash  gave  way  before  inevitable  fate,  and 
wrote  some  better  plays  in  consequence. 

"  Let  us  inquire  what  change  Marlowe  really  introduced,  and 
what  was  his  theory  of  dramatic  versification.  He  found  the  ten- 
syllabled  heroic  line  monotonous,  monosyllabic,  and  divided  into 
five  feet  of  alternate  short  and  long.  He  left  it  various  in  form 
and  structure,  sometimes  redundant  by  a  syllable,  sometimes  defi- 
cient, enriched  with  unexpected  emphases  and  changes  in  the 
beat.  He  found  no  sequence  or  attempt  at  periods;  one  line 
succeeded  another  with  insipid  regularity,  and  all  were  made  after 
the  same  model.  He  grouped  his  verse  according  to  the  sense, 
obeying  an  internal  law  of  melody,  and  allowing  the  thought  con- 
tained in  his  words  to  dominate  over  their  Jform.  He  did  not 
force  his  metre  to  preserve  a  fixed  and  unalterable  type,  but  suf- 
fered it  to  assume  most  variable  modulations,  the  whole  beauty  of 
which  depended  upon  their  perfect  adaptation  to  the  current  of 
his  ideas.  By  these  means  he  was  able  to  produce  the  double 
effect  of  variety  and  unity,  to  preserve  the  fixed  march  of  his 
chosen  metre,  and  yet,  by  subtle  alterations  in  the  pauses,  speed, 
and  grouping  of  the  syllables,  to  make  one  measure  represent  a 
thousand.  Used  in  this  fashion,  blank  verse  became  a  Proteus. 
It  resembled  music,  which  requires  regular  time  and  rhythm  ;  but, 


60  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

by  the  employment  of  phrase,  induces  a  higher  kind  of  melody  to 
rise  above  the  common  and  prosaic  beat  of  time.  Bad  writers  of 
blank  verse,  like  Marlowe's  predecessors,  or  like  those  who  in  all 
ages  have  been  deficient  in  plastic  energy  and  power  of  harmoni- 
ous modulation,  produce  successions  of  monotonous  iambic  lines, 
sacrificing  all  the  poetry  of  expression  to  the  mechanism  of  their 
art.  Metre  with  them  ceases  to  be  the  organic  body  of  a  vital 
thought,  and  becomes  a  mere  framework.  And  bad  critics  praise 
them  for  the  very  faults  of  tameness  and  monotony  which  they 
miscall  regularity  of  numbers.  It  was  thus  that  the  sublimest  as 
well  as  the  most  audacious  of  Milton's  essays  in  versification  fell 
under  the  censure  of  Jonson." 

The  best  form  of  Marlowe's  verse  may  be  said  to  have  been  the 
ground,  the  tune,  the  plain  song,  on  which  Shakespeare  raised  his 
future  dramatic  descants.*  But  he  first  got  the  plain  song  to  per- 
fection before  he  raised  any  descants  thereupon.  He  first  learned 
to  move  with  freedom  and  grace  within  the  limits  of  five  measures. 
But  here  the  misconception  must  be  guarded  against  that  Shake- 
speare's development  as  an  artist  proceeded  from  form  to  spirit. 
His  verse,  it  is  plain  to  see,  developed  in  certain  directions.  But 
the  change  of  form  which  it  gradually  underwent,  from  first  to  last, 
barring  certain  conventionalities,  was  not  by  imposition  of  the  for- 
eign hand,  —  was  not  superinduced.  Its  development  was  not  so 
much  ab  extra  as  ab  infra.  When  we  consider  that  in  some  of 
his  earliest  plays,  sentiment  predominates  over  thought,  the  poetic 
over  the  dramatic,  we  must  admit  that  the  verse  of  these  plays, 
(the  more  or  less  conscious  imitation  of  his  predecessors  and  co- 
temporaries,  and  the  traditional  demands  of  the  theatre,  perhaps, 
being  sufficiently  taken  into  account,)  is  quite  as  organic  as  that 
of  his  latest,  so  far  as  the  spirit  that  moulds  it  is  concerned.  It 
was  because  the  man  Shakespeare,  in  the  later  period  of  his  career, 


*  "  Shakespeare's  metre  was  a  free  offspring  of  the  ear,  owing  little  but  its 
generic  form  to  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries."  Halliwell-Phillipps's 
"  Outlines  of  the  Life  of  Shakespeare,"  5th  ed.  p.  204. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  6 1 

had  grown,  spiritually,  intellectually,  and  morally  —  had  grown  in 
self-knowledge  and  in  world-wisdom,  —  had  taken  the  measure  of 
those  proportions  by  which  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  are 
balanced,  —  and,  more  than  all,  had  reached  a  fuller  capability  of 
dramatic  identification,  the  fullest  ever  reached  by  man,  —  that  the 
language- shaping  of  his  latest  plays  differs  so  materially  from  that 
of  his  earliest  plays.  It  is  not  so  much  the  difference  between 
the  work  of  an  apprentice  and  the  work  of  a  master  (though  it 
must  be  admitted  that  he  had  to  serve  an  apprenticeship,  like  the 
rest  of  mortals),  as  it  is  the  difference  between  genius  in  the  bud 
and  genius  in  full  bloom.  The  student  of  his  verse  must  not  there- 
fore reason  after  the  theory  of  evolution,  as  it  is  often  understood 
in  these  days,  but  must  reason  in  a  directly  opposite  direction, 
namely,  from  pre-existent  spirit  to  form.  "  Every  spirit  makes  its 
house,"  says  Emerson,  "  and  we  can  give  a  shrewd  guess  from  the 
house  to  its  inhabitant."  And  Spenser,  in  his  Hymn  in  Honor  of 

Beauty,  says : 

"  Of  the  soul,  the  body  form  doth  take  ; 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make." 

It  may  be  stated  in  a  general  way  that  the  development  of 
Shakespeare's  verse  proceeds  from  the  recitative  to  the  sponta- 
neous, and  in  accordance  with  this  development,  it  at  first  moves 
obediently  within  metrical  limits,  gradually  gaining  in  melody  and 
grace  until  it  reaches  the  highest  possible  freedom  of  movement 
within  those  limits,  and  realizes  its  fullest  dramatic  capabilities ; 
it  then  gradually  transgresses  them  more  and  more  until,  in  the 
latest  plays,  The  Winter's  Tale,  Cymbeline,  and  The  Tempest,  it 
is  often  but  slightly  other  than  rhythmical  prose  —  an  unbroken 
pentameter  measure  not  being  returned  to  sufficiently  often  to  be 
felt  as  a  standard.  For  it  should  be  distinctly  understood  (it  has 
not  been  by  a  great  many  writers  of  blank  verse),  that  however 
cunningly  varied  the  pause  may  be,  variety  ceases  to  be  variety 
when  the  standard  pentameter  measure  is  wandered  from  to  such 
an  extent  that  it  is  no  longer  in  the  feelings  even  as  a  sub-con- 
sciousness. 


62  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

Suppose  that  twenty  or  more  consecutive  verses  were  broken 
thus  (the  three  dots  at  the  ending  of  some  of  the  verses  indicating 
that  those  verses  run  on  into  the  following)  : 


The  pause-melody  would  be  quite  annulled,  for  the  pentameter 
standard  would  cease  to  be  in  the  feelings.  Effective  variety  there 
would  be  none,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there  would  be  nothing 
varied  from.  Milton  understood  this,  and  always  acted  upon  it. 
There  is  no  other  blank  verse  in  the  literature,  in  which  the  pause- 
melody  constitutes  so  large  a  feature  as  it  does  in  Milton's.  And 
it  will  be  found  to  be  due  to  his  skilful  management  of  the  pen- 
tameter standard. 

Masson  remarks  that  "  the  most  frequent  Caesura  *  in  Milton's 
Blank  Verse  is  at  the  end  of  the  third  foot  (i.e.,  generally  after  the 
sixth  syllable,  though  it  may  occasionally  be  after  the  seventh,  or 
even  after  the  eighth)  :  e.g.,  — 


*  By  '  Caesura '  he  means,  as  he  explains  above,  "  the  pause  attending  the 
conclusion  of  a  period,  or  of  some  logical  section  of  a  period,  when  that  pause 
occurs  anywhere  else  than  at  the  end  of  a  line." 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  63 

"  And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  Death."  || 

"  In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades 
High  overarched  embower."  || 

"  Prone  on  the  flood  extended  long  and  large 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood."  || 

"  Dropt  from  the  zenith,  like  a  falling  star, 
On  Lemnos,  the  /Egean  isle."  || 

This,  I  think,  is  also  Shakespeare's  favorite  Caesura.  Next  in 
frequency  in  Milton  is  the  Caesura  after  the  second  foot  (generally 
the  fourth  syllable)  :  e.g.,  — 

' '  A  thousand  demigods  on  golden  seats 
Frequent  and  full."  || 

After  these  two,  but  a  long  way  after  them,  the  most  common 
are  the  Caesura  in  the  middle  of  the  third  foot  (generally  after  the 
fifth  syllable),  and  that  in  the  middle  of  the  fourth  foot  (generally 
after  the  seventh  syllable)  :  e.g.,  — 

"  shapes  and  forms, 

The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where  stood 
Their  great  Commander."  || 

"  Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf 
Confounded,  though  immortal."  || 

Considerably  less  frequent  still  is  the  Caesura  after  the  completed 
fourth  foot  (generally  the  eighth  syllable)  ;  and  still  more  rare, 
though  occasional,  are  the  Caesuras  at  the  middle  of  the  second 
foot  (generally  after  the  third  syllable)  and  after  the  first  com- 
pleted foot  (generally  the  second  syllable)  :  — 

"  Anguish  and  doubt  and  fear  and  sorrow  and  pain 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.  ||  Thus  they" 


64  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

"  For  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 
Torments  him.  ||  Round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes." 

"  And  now  his  heart 

Distends  with  pride,  and  hardening  in  his  strength, 
Glories :  ||  for  never  since  created  man  " 

Very  rare  indeed  is  the  Caesura  in  the  middle  of  the  fifth  foot 
(i.e.,  after  what  is  generally  the  ninth  syllable)  ;  but  there  are 
instances : 

"  Were  it  a  draught  for  Juno  when  she  banquets, 
I  would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer.  ||  None 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good  things." 

Hardly  to  be  found  at  all  is  the  Caesura  after  the  first  syllable  or 
in  the  middle  of  the  first  foot ;  but  this  may  pass  as  an  instance  : 

"  The  Ionian  Gods,  of  Javan's  issue  held 

Gods  :  ||  yet  confessed  later  than  Heaven  and  Earth." 

Cowper,  in  the  Preface  to  his  translation  of  the  Iliad,  after  speak- 
ing of  the  greater  difficulty  of  writing  blank  verse  than  rhymed 
verse,  adds  :  "  He  [the  poet]  in  order  that  he  may  be  musical, 
must  exhibit  all  the  variations,  as  he  proceeds,  of  which  ten  sylla- 
bles are  susceptible ;  between  the  first  syllable  and  the  last  there 
is  no  place  at  which  he  must  not  occasionally  pause,  and  the  place 
of  the  pause  must  be  perpetually  shifted." 

But  he  omits  to  say  one  very  important  thing,  without  which 
variation  of  pause  will  not  result  in  pause-melody,  but  in  metrical 
chaos  j  namely,  that  an  unbroken  pentameter  measure  must  be  re- 
turned to  sufficiently  often  for  it  to  be  felt  as  a  standard. 

I  would  say  here,  by  the  way,  that  Milton  often  secures  what 
might  be  called  an  emphasis  melody,  by  the  variation  of  the  posi- 
tions of  the  emphatic  syllables.  It  will  be  found  that  there  are  four 
chief  places  in  his  verse  where  the  logical  emphasis  falls,  namely, 
the  4th  and  8th,  and  6th  and  loth  syllables  of  the  verse.  If  the 
emphasis  falls  on  the  4th,  the  next  generally  falls  on  the  8th ;  if  on 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  65 

the  6th,  then  on  the  loth.     Frequently  in  connection  with  the  6th 
and  roth,  it  also  falls  on  the  second. 

The  opening  lines  of  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  afford  a  good  illustration 

"  Of  Man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  frm't 
Of  that  forb/dden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  w^rld,  and  all  our  w0e, 
With  loss  of  JSden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  <9reb,  or  of  Smai,  didst  insp/re 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed, 
In  the  begmning  how  the  heavens  and  earth 
Rose  out  of  Chtfos  :  or,  if  S/on  hill 
Delight  thee  m0re,  and  Siloa's  brook  that  flow'd 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  m#/mt,  while  it  pursues 
Things  ^nattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme." 

The  emphatic  syllables  are  indicated  by  the  italicized  vowels. 
The  following  exhibits  the  emphasis  scheme  as  to  locations  of 
the  emphasized  syllables  in  the  several  verses  : 


—     W      

w    — 

^     _6_ 


66  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

But  the  most  effective  epic  movement  is  inadequate  to  the 
demands  of  the  freest  dramatic  movement,  to  which  metrical  re- 
straint must,  at  times,  entirely  give  way,  as  it  does  in  those  scenes 
of  Shakespeare's  Plays,  wherein  the  completest  dramatic  identifi- 
cation is  reached.  The  verse  is  verse  only  to  the  eye,  not  to  the 
ear. 

In  the  First  Folio,  we  meet  with  sets  of  broken  verses  which 
editors  have  taken  the  pains  to  arrange  into  pentameter  measure. 
But  what  is  gained  thereby?  Nothing  more  than  that  it  is  made 
verse  to  the  eye ;  the  effect  upon  the  ear  is  of  course  not  changed. 
The  sections  of  blank  verse  might  all  be  printed  as  separate  lines. 
There  would,  in  fact,  be  some  advantage  in  so  doing.  The  recur- 
rence of  the  unbroken  pentameter  measure  could  thus  be  better 
exhibited  to  the  eye. 

»To  return.    The  development  of  Shakespeare's  verse  proceeds 
rom '"  mu  Jucitati ve  to  the  spontaneous. 

Any  one  who  will  read  aloud  two  or  three  of  the  earliest  plays, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  latest  (and  he  need  not  be  particular 
about  their  being  the  very  earliest  or  the  very  latest),  will  find 
that  the  former  ask  a  quite  different  elocution  from  that  of  the 
latter.  The  elocution  of  the  former,  whatever  may  be  any  one's 
habits  as  a  reader,  will  naturally  run  more  or  less  into  the  recita- 
tive style  of  expression  —  will  be  such  as  a  reader  is  apt  to  give  to 
matter  previously  prepared;  the  elocution  of  the  latter  will,  as 
naturally,  dwell  more  upon  the  thought,  as  if  it,  the  thought,  were 
\:  having  its  genesis  in  the  mind,  at  the  time  of  its  expression. 

In  the  composition  of  some  of  the  earlier  Plays,  sentiment  with . 
the  poet,  was,  as  I  have  said,  often  predominant  over  thought  — 
,:j:-his  mood  was  often  more  poetic  than  dramatic  —  and  he  had,  in 
consequence,  the  tune,  the  plain  song,  more  in  his  feelings ;  later, 
when  sentiment  was  to  a  considerable  extent  displaced  by  thought, 
when  the  poetic  mood  yielded  almost  entirely  to  dramatic  identi- 
fication, the  plain  song  was  sunk  in  the  descants. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  necessary  to  read  entire  plays  of  the  poet's 
earliest  and  latest  workmanship  to  feel  this ;  a  few  passages  taken 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  6/ 

i 

at  random  from  the  verse-portions  of  the  plays,  will  suffice,  so 
marked  is  the  difference  of  the  language-shaping,  and  yet  it  is 
felt  to  be  the  language  of  one  and  the  same  mind,  but  the  same 
mind  under  different  attitudes.  Again :  the  gradual  and  regular 
changes  which  Shakespeare's  language- shaping  underwent,  must 
have  wrought  changes  in  the  stage-elocution  —  which  changes 
may,  in  turn,  have  had  a  reactionary  effect  upon  his  latest  style. 
At  the  first  great  outburst  of  the  Drama,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
the  stage-elocution  must  have  been  more  or  less  of  the  recitative 
style,  and  inflated  withal.  This  is  inferable  from  the  versification 
which  preceded  Shakespeare's ;  and  there  was  no  doubt  a  tradi- 
tional style,  dating  far  back,  which  had  to  be  counteracted  to  some 
extent,  before  the  way  was  open  for  the  effective,  natural,  and 
deliberate  style  which,  there  is  evidence,  Richard  Burbadge  must 
have  practised.  In  "  A  Funeral  Elegy  on  the  death  of  the  famous 
Actor,  Richard  Burbadge,  who  died  on  Saturday  in  Lent,  i3th  of 
March,  1618,"  it  is  said  of  his  elocution,  that  "not  a  word  did  fall 
Without  just  weight  to  ballast  it  withal." 

We  learn  from  this  Elegy  (there  is,  however,  some  question  as 
to  its  genuineness*),  the  interesting  fact  that  Burbadge  played 
twelve  parts  in  Shakespeare's  Plays,  namely  Shylock,  Richard  III., 
Prince  Henry,  Romeo,  Henry  V.,  Brutus,  Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear, 
Macbeth,  Pericles,  and  Coriolanus.  And  he  may  have  played 
others.  The  long  and  intimate  relationship  which  existed  between 
Shakespeare  and  Burbadge,  must  have  resulted  in  a  mutual  advan- 
tage. The  one  wrote  better  plays,  perhaps,  in  having  such  an 
actor  to  impersonate  the  principal  characters,  and  the  other  had 
his  best  powers  brought  into  play  and  developed  in  having  such  a 
dramatist  to  provide  him  with  such  characters.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting to  know  to  what  extent  the  excellences  of  one  were 
reflected  upon  those  of  the  other.  It  can  be  safely  inferred  that 
their  mutual  obligations  must  have  been  considerable. 


*  See  "  Shakespeare's  Centurie  of  Prayse  :   by  Dr.  C.  M.  Ingleby."     2d 
edition,  p.  132. 


68  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

• 

Contemporaneously  with  the  Recitative  form  of  Shakespeare's 
blank  verse,  rhymes  more  or  less  abound,  and  they  gradually 
diminish  with  the  progress  of  the  verse  toward  the  spontaneous, 
more  dramatic  form.  In  the  Recitative  period,  sentiment  with  the 
poet  was  often  predominant  over  thought,  his  mood  was  more 
poetic  than  dramatic,  and  he  had,  in  consequence,  the  tune,  the 
plain  song,  more  in  his  feelings.  The  metre  of  this  plain  song  is, 
as  a  general  thing,  marked  by  a  strong  word  or  syllable  in  the  5th 
foot,  upon  which  the  voice  can  and  must  press ;  and  this  marking 
of  the  metre,  is,  under  certain  emotional  conditions,  enforced  by 
rhyme. 

In  Love's  Labor's  Lost  there  are  about  noo  rhyming  verses; 
in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  about  900  ;  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
about  500  ;  in  Richard  II.,  over  500.  In  the  intermediate  period 
between  the  more  decidedly  recitative,  and  the  more  decidedly 
spontaneous,  periods,  rhymes  keep  gradually  diminishing ;  and  in 
the  latest  period  of  the  poet's  work,  they  are  used  very  sparingly, 
and  for  some  special  purpose  —  for  the  rounding  off  of  a  scene, 
etc.  In  Cymbeline,  there  are  about  100 ;  in  Coriolanus  and  in 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  about  40  ;  in  The  Tempest,  but  2  ;  and  in 
The  Winter's  Tale,  there  are  none  at  all,  except  those  in  the  Chorus 
which  introduces  the  4th  Act ;  and  it's  questionable  whether  this 
Chorus  was  written  by  Shakespeare. 

Though  the  proportion  of  rhyming  to  blank  verses  may  indicate 
the  period,  whether  recitative  or  spontaneous,  to  which  a  play 
belongs,  rhyme  is,  however,  only  one  of  a  number  of  phenomena 
which  have  to  be  taken  into  account,  in  determining  approxi- 
mately the  place  of  a  play  in  the  chronological  order.  And  this 
can  be  said  with  equal  truth,  and  without  exception,  of  all  other 
tests. 

Of  two  early  Plays,  the  fact  that  one  contains  100,  or  200,  or 
even  300  rhymes,  more  or  less  than  the  other,  the  whole  number 
of  verses  in  each  play  being  taken  into  account,  is,  of  itself,  no 
evidence  that  it  came  before,  or  followed,  the  other  in  composi- 
tion. Though  Shakespeare  appropriated  conventional  forms  of 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  69 

language,  he  never  servilely  subjected  his  mind  and  feelings  to 
them ;  and  his  using  more  rhymes  or  less  rhymes  in  one  early 
play  than  in  another,  would  depend  upon  the  pitch  of  the  poetic 
or  dramatic  key  in  which  it  happened  to  be  written.  Every 
reader  of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  must  feel  that  rhyme 
is  an  inseparable  adjunct  to  the  speeches  of  those  persons  of  the 
Drama  who  are  in  its  main  current  —  if  adjunct  that  can  be  called 
which,  in  this  play,  particularly,  is  so  organic  an  element  of  the 
language-shaping.  Sometimes  the  feeling  under  which  the  verse 
moves  reaches  out  after  a  double  rhyme  : 

"  The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd ; 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season : 
So  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason  ;  " 

—  A.  II.  Sc.  ii.  111-114. 

And  in  one  case,  the  rebounding  pitch  of  the  speaker's  feelings, 
or  spirits,  exhibits  itself  in  a  repetition  of  the  same  rhyme  through 
a  number  of  successive  verses  : 

"  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman ; 
Hop  in  his  walks  and  gambol  in  his  eyes  ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs  and  mulberries  ; 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  for  night-tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  — 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies." 

—  A.  III.  Sc.  i.  167-177. 

Now  if  rhyme,  at  the  outset  of  his  career,  had  been  a  mere 
matter  of  adoption  with  the  poet,  and  he  had  employed  it  simply 
because  he  liked  it,  it  wouldn't  be  of  much  account  in  gauging 
the  poetic  pitch  of  a  play.  But  as  it  is  employed  in  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  the  reader  must  feel  that  it  is  essential 


70  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

to  the  poetic  pitch  of  the  play.  The  poet,  with  a  more  dramatic 
purpose,  might  have  previously  written  a  number  of  plays  on  a 
lower  poetic  key,  and  have  used,  in  consequence,  fewer  rhymes. 
It  is  quite  certain  that  he  did  previously  write  such  plays.  That 
he  could  not  have  written  a  more  dramatic  play  at  the  time  he 
composed  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  is  not  for  a  moment  to 
be  supposed. 

Rhyme,  by  itself,  must  be,  as  he  employs  it,  a  somewhat  un-. 
reliable  chronological  test  except  in  determining  whether  a  play 
be  an  early  or  a  late  one. 

The  place  of  a  pause  or  a  break  in  a  verse  has  some  rela- 
tion to  the  current  of  the  feeling.  The  ordinary  comma-pause 
doesn't  make  much  difference  in  the  movement  of  a  verse,  one 
way  or  another ;  but  where  a  sentence  closes  within  a  verse,  with  a 
complete  foot,  the  break  is  more  marked  than  where  it  closes  with 
the  light  syllable  of  the  iamb,  the  next  sentence  beginning  with 
the  heavy  syllable.  In  the  latter  case,  the  feeling  of  the  current 
of  the  verse  is  more  or  less  sustained,  though  there  is  a  close  in 
the  thought,  as  the  following  verses  from  Romeo  and  Juliet  show  : 

O,  where  is  Rom#??    Saw  you  him  to  day? 

Well,  in  that  \i\t.you  miss:  she'll  not  be  hit 
With  Cupid's  arrow ;  she  hath  Dian's  wit, 

A  man,  young  \a.dy  \  /fldy,  such  a  man 
You  are  a  lover ;  &?rrow  Cupid's  wings, 
She  is  the  Fairies'  midwife  ;  and  she  comes 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab 

This  being  the  case,  we  should  expect  a  priori  the  pauses  or 
breaks  to  be  more  frequently  after  the  light  syllables,  in  the  more 
smoothly  flowing  verses  of  the  recitative  form  of  Shakespeare's 
verse ;  and  so  I  have  found  them  to  be,  in  going  over  a  number 
of  Plays  having  this  form  of  verse.  It  may  be  said  that  the  place 
of  the  pause  is  determined,  more  or  less,  by  the  verse-sense  of  the 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  7 1 

poet,  at  the  time  of  his  writing.  When  his  verse-sense  is  strong, 
the  pauses  coming  after  the  light  syllable  of  an  iamb  will  pre- 
dominate ;  as  his  verse-sense  goes  down,  so  to  speak,  there  will  be 
an  increase  in  the  paiises  after  complete  feet. 

In  King  John,  Richard  II.,  Parts  I.  and  II.  of  Henry  IV.,  and 
Henry  V.,  the  dates  of  whose  composition  range  about  from  1596 
to  1599,  the  recitative  form  of  verse  reaches  its  highest  degree  of 
freedom,  vigor,  and  sweep,  and  realizes  its  fullest  dramatic  capa- 
bilities. The  best  blank  verse  in  these  plays,  presents  a  strong 
contrast  to  that  of  the  poet's  earliest  plays,  Love's  Labor's  Lost, 
for  example. 

Take  as  a  fair  specimen  of  the  blank  verse  of  the  latter  play, 
the  speech  of  the  Princess,  wherein  she  commissions  Boyet  to 
secure  for  her  a  personal  conference  with  the  King  (A.  II.  Sc.  i. 
13-34)  : 

"  Good  Lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,  though  but  mean, 
Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise : 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye, 
Not  uttered  by  base  sale  of  chapman's  tongues  : 
I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth 
Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 
But  now  to  task  the  tasker :  good  Boyet, 
You  are  not  ignorant,  all-telling  fame 
Doth  noise  abroad,  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painful  duty  shall  outwear  three  years, 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court : 
Therefore  to's  seemeth  it  a  needful  course, 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 
To  know  his  pleasure  :  and  in  that  behalf, 
Bold  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 
As  our  best-moving  fair  solicitor. 
Tell  him,  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  France, 
On  serious  business  craving  quick  dispatch, 
Importunes  personal  conference  with  his  grace : 
Haste,  signify  so  much  ;  while  we  attend, 
Like  humble-visag'd  suitors,  his  high  will." 


72  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

Contrast  with  this  speech  the  following  speech  of  King  John 
to  Hubert,  A.  III.  Sc.  iii,  in  which  he  intimates  to  Hubert  his 
wish  to  have  the  little  prince  put  out  of  the  way.  The  thought 
keeps  on  the  wing,  so  to  speak,  through  19  verses,  and  the  verse 
exhibits  a  union  of  strength,  lightsomeness,  and  elasticity.  There 
is  perhaps  no  passage,  in  any  earlier  play,  in  which  the  blank  verse 
has  attained  to  such  a  sweep  as  it  has  in  this  passage. 

The  nineteen  lines  to  which  I  allude,  begin  with  the  words 

''If  the  midnight  bell." 

Hubert  says  :  "  I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty  "  ;  and  the 
King  replies  : 

"  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say  so  yet. 
But  thou  shalt  have ;  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow, 
Yet  it  shall  come  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say,  —  but  let  it  go. 
The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day, 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Is  all  too  wanton  and  too  full  of  gawds 
To  give  me  audience.     If  the  midnight  bell 
Did,  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  race  of  night ; 
If  this  same  were  a  churchyard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs, 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy, 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood  and  made  it  heavy,  thick, 
Which  else  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins, 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes, 
Or  if  that  thou  couldst  see  me  without  eyes, 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone, 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words ; 
Then,  in  despite  of  brooded  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts. 
But,  ah,  I  will  not !  —  yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 


SHAKESPEAR&S    VERSE.  73 

There's  a  moral  significance  in  the  suspended  construction  of 
the  language.     The  mind  of  the  dastard  king  hovers  over  the 
subject  of  the  ungodly  act,  and  dares  not  alight  upon  it  |"  and  the 
verse  in  its  uncadenced  movement  admirably  registers  the  speaker's  j 
state  of  mind. 

Another  example  of  the  freedom  attained  in  the  recitative  form 
of  Shakespeare's  verse,  and  of  the  dramatic  capabilities  realized 
by  it,  is  afforded  by  the  speech  of  Hotspur,  in  the  3d  Scene  of  the 
ist  Act  of  r  Henry  IV.  He  has  been  charged  with  refusing  to 
give  up  the  prisoners  taken  at  Holmedon.  Northumberland  says 
to  the  king : 

"  Those  prisoners  in  your  highness'  name  demanded, 
Which  Harry  Percy  here  at  Holmedon  took, 
Were,  as  he  says,  not  with  such  strength  denied 
As  is  delivered  to  your  majesty : 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision, 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son." 


It  will  be  observed  that  of  the  41  verses  of  which  Hotspur's 

^jpHIIli"  *  "**' 

speech  is  composed,  but  two  or  three  run  into  the  verses  following 
them ;  and  yet  there's  very  little  impression  of  metrical  restraint 
upon  the  language. 

"  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners, 
But,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin  new  reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest  home ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner : 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took't  away  again ;  — 
Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 
Took  it  in  snuff:  —  and  still  he  smiled,  and  talk'd ; 
And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 
He  call'd  them  —  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 


74  SHAKESPEARE  S    VERSE. 

To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 

Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 

With  many  holiday  and  iady  terms 

He  question'd  me ;  among  the  rest,  demanded 

My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 

I  then,  all  smarting  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 

To  be  so  pestered  with  a  popinjay, 

Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 

Answered  neglectingly  I  know  not  what ; 

He  should,  or  he  should  not ;  —  for  he  made  me  mad 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 

And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman 

Of  guns  and  drums,  and  wounds  (God  save  the  mark !) 

And  telling  me  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 

Was  parmaceti,  for  an  inward  bruise ; 

And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 

That  villanous  salt-petre  should  be  digg'd 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 

Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 

So  cowardly ;  and  but  for  these  vile  guns, 

He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 

I  answer'd  indirectly  as  I  said ; 

And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 

Come  current  for  an  accusation 

Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty." 

In  the  ist  Scene  of  the  4th  Act,  Hotspur  says,  alluding  to  the 
King, 


v 


' '  Where  is  his  son, 
The  nimble-footed  madcap  Prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades,  that  dafPd  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass?" 

Sir  Richard  Vernon  replies  : 

"  All  furnish'd,  all  in  arms ; 
All  plumed  like  estridges  that  with  the  wind 
Bate  it  like  eagles  having  lately  bathed  ; 
Glittering  in  golden  coats  like  images  ; 


UNIV.EKB1TY    \\ 


SHAKESPEARE'S  V£KSE.  75 

As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 

And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer, 

Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls. 

I  saw  young  Harry,  with  his  beaver  on, 

His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm'd, 

Rise  from  the  ground  like  feathered  Mercury, 

And  vault  it  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 

As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds, 

To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 

And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship." 

A  passage  like  this  may  be  regarded  as  the  climax  of  the  free- 
dom of  movement  and  the  bounding  vigor  which  Shakespeare's 
blank  verse  reached  in  its  recitative  form  —  that  form,  to  repeat, 
in  which  the  normal  pentameter  measure  of  the  verse  determines 
more  or  less  the  orbit  of  the  thought.  When  it  reached  this  vigor- 
ous, and,  at  the  same  time,  buoyant  metrical  movement,  the  poet 
had  realized  the  extreme  dramatic  capabilities  of  this  form  of  blank 
verse.  But  for  the  freest  movement  of  his  dramatic  thought  in  its 
fullest  maturity,  he  passed  beyond  the  recitative  form  of  blank 
verse  into  that  which  I  have  named  the  spontaneous,  the  most 
obvious  characteristics  of  which,  are  : 
i  st.  The  metre  is  sunk  more  or  less, 

a.  Through  the  weakness  of  the  word  receiving  the  5th  ictus  of 
the  verse. 

b.  By  a  looser  melodious  fusion  of  the  verse,  and  by  a  more 
arbitrary  use  of  pauses  and  breaks. 

2d.  Extra  end-syllables  crop  out  more  and  more,  as  the  recita- 
tive form  of  verse  is  departed  from. 

And  first  : 

The  Metre  is  sunk  more  or  less,  a.  Through  the  weakness  of 
the  word  receiving  the  $th  ictus  of  the  verse. 

As  the  poet  advances  in  dramatic  identification,  the  metre  of 
his  blank  verse  yields  more  and  more  to  the  movement  of  the 
thought.  The  firmest  resting  place  for  the  voice,  in  the  more 
markedly  recitative  style,  is  the  accented  syllable  or  word  of  the 


76  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

5th  foot;  in  the  spontaneous  style,  this  syllable  or  word  is  fre- 
quently the  lightest  on  which  the  voice  can  press,  and  sometimes 
this  place  in  the  verse  is  occupied  by  a  proclitic  particle  on  which 
it  cannot  press  at  all,  but  must  move  on  into  the  succeeding  verse. 
The  normal  metre  is  thus,  at  times,  more  or  less  lost  to  the  feel- 
ings, and  only  the  foot  rhythm  of  the  language  is  felt.  In  The 
Winter's  Tale  verses  frequently  end  with  such  atonic  or  proclitic 
words  as  a,  are,  and,  as,  but,  if,  nor,  or,  of,  for,  the,  to,  which, 
with  : 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  born  to's :  for 

And  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbor  (by 
Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour :) 

A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me,  and 

Which  puts  some  of  us  in  distemper ;    but 

Which  must  be  ev'n  as  swiftly  follow'd  as 

Turn  then  my  freshest  reputation  to 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven  and 

I  know  not:  but  I'm  sure  'tis  safer  to 

Still  neighbour  mine.     My  ships  are  ready  and 

I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father  if 

You'll  kiss  me  hard,  and  speak  to  me  as  if 

Freed  and  enfranchised;  not  a  party  to 
The  anger  of  the  king  nor  guilty  of 

They  should  not  laugh  if  I  could  reach  them,  nor 

Which  contradicts  my  accusation  and 

Which  to  deny  concerns  more  than  avails ;  for  as 

Mine  own,  nor  any  thing  to  any,  if 

Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial  which 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  77 

Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather,  but 
Most  incident  to  maids;  bold  oxlips  and 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Resolv'd  for  flight:  now  were  I  happy  if 
There's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by 
She  is  as  forward  of  her  breeding  as 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom;  and 
Might  thus  have  stood  begetting  wonder,  as 
Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 
The  father  of  this  seeming  lady  and 
My  evils  conjured  to  remembrance,  and 

b.  By  a  looser  melodious  fusion  of  the  verse,  and  by  a  more 
arbitrary  use  of  pauses  and  breaks. 

When  feeling  or  sentiment  is  in  the  ascendant  over  the  dramatic, 
its  plastic  or  unifying  power  is  manifested  in  a  closer  and  more 
melodious  fusion  of  the  verse  —  the  pauses  and  breaks  are  made 
with  more  reference  to  the  standard  measure  of  the  verse,  that  is, 
they  do  not  occur  in  such  a  way  as  to  cause  the  standard  to 
be  sunk  in  the  varied  measures.  But  take  the  following  speech 
from  Cymbeline,  A.  III.  Sc.  ii.  50-70,  and  note  how  the  melody 
fusion  of  the  verses  is  reduced,  and  how  the  standard  measure  of 
the  verse  is  sunk  in  the  varied  measures. 

Imogen  learns  that  her  husband  is  at  Milford-Haven,  and  is 
eager  to  go  to  him  there  : 

"  O,  for  a  horse  with  wings  !   Hear'st  thou,  Pisanio? 
He  is  at  Milford-Haven :  read,  and  tell  me 
How  far  His  thither.     If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a  day?   then,  true  Pisanio,  — 
Who  long'st,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord ;  who  long'st,  — 


78  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

O,  let  me  bate,  — but  not  like  me  —  yet  longest, 
But  in  a  fainter  kind  :  —  O,  not  like  me  ; 
For  mine's  beyond  beyond  —  say,  and  speak  thick,  — 
Love's  counsellor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing, 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense  —  how  far  it  is 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford  :  and  by  the  way 
Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy  as 
To  inherit  such  an  haven  :  but,  first  of  all, 
How  we  may  steal  from  hence,  and  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence-going 
And  our  return,  to  excuse  :  but  first,  how  get  hence. 
Why  should  excuse  be  born  or  ere  begot? 
We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter.     Prithee,  speak, 
How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
'Twixt  hour  and  hour?" 

2d.  Extra  end-syllables  crop  out  more  and  more,  as  the  recita- 
tive form  of  verse  is  departed  from. 

As  used  by  Fletcher,  extra  end-syllables  are  but  little  more  than 
a  mere  mannerism,  that  is,  they  are  not  to  any  extent,  organic  — 
are  not  occasioned  by  the  movement  of  the  thought  or  feeling. 
Their  origin  may  perhaps  be  attributed  partly  to  Italian  influence, 
and  as  employed  by  Fletcher  they  may  have  been  largely  a  mere 
adoption  —  an  adoption  which  became,  in  time,  more  or  less  a 
mere  habit.  The  dramatic  capabilities  of  the  double  ending  are 
therefore  not  realized,  to  any  extent,  in  Fletcher's  verse,  by  reason 
of  the  over-frequency  of  its  occurrence. 

Shakespeare  made  use  of  the  conventional  in  other  things  than 
forms  of  language  ;  he,  indeed,  absorbed  all  that  was  conventional 
in  the  literature  of  his  age ;  but  such  was  the  force  and  plastic 
power  of  his  genius,  that  he  always  infused  into  conventional  forms 
a  new  soul  —  he  translated  them  from  the  conventional  into  the 
organic ;  the  formal  becomes  smoothed  down  into  spontaneous 
grace.  He  is  the  freest  of  all  authors  from  mannerisms,  and  that 
is  one  reason  why  (although  the  habitual  student  of  his  works 
comes,  in  time,  to  feel  what  is  Shakespearian  and  what  is  not),  he 
cannot  be  imitated  with  any  success ;  there  is  not  that  in  his  die- 


SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE.  79 

tion  which  the  imitator  generally  lays  hold  of — an  evidence  of 
the  organic  character  of  his  language-shaping.  For  to  the  degree 
that  expression  is  organic,  does  imitation  become  difficult,  which 
generally  lays  hold  on  mannerisms  and  mere  excrescences.  The 
organic  can  be  reproduced  only  to  the  extent  that  the  formative 
spirit  has  a  palingenesis  in  another  mind. 

Shakespeare's  extra  end-syllables  were  something  more  than  an 
adoption  with  him ;  *  and  it  becomes  important  in  the  study  of 
his  verse  to  determine  to  what  extent  they  are  conventional  and  to 
what  extent  they  are  organic,  or  inseparable  from  the  expression 
of  certain  modes  of  feeling  and  of  mind  movement. 

This  may  be  said  in  a  general  way,  that  what  is  true  of  his  use 
of  rhyme  is  equally  true  of  his  use  of  extra  end-syllables  —  they 
are  employed  when  sought  for  —  when  the  feeling,  so  to  speak, 
reaches  out  for  them.  And  of  two  given  plays,  if  one  has  a  con- 
siderable number  of  extra  end-syllables  more  than  another,  it  is 
not  a  legitimate  inference  that  it  was  composed  after  the  other ; 
unless  it  be  assumed  that  the  use  of  extra  end-syllables  was  a  mere 
habit  that  grew  upon  the  poet,  in  each  succeeding  Play,  in  the 
later  period  of  his  workmanship.  But  no  one  who  reads  Shake- 
speare with  due  faith  in  the  organic  significance,  in  general,  of 
his  language-shaping,  would  assume  anything  of  the  kind.  He 


*  "  The  temperate  introduction  of  lines  with  the  hypermetrical  syllable  has 
often  a  pleasing  effect,  but  during  the  last  few  years  of  the  poet's  career,  their 
immoderate  use  was  affected  by  our  dramatists,  and  although,  for  the  most 
part,  Shakespeare's  metre  was  a  free  offspring  of  the  ear,  owing  little  but  its 
generic  form  to  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries,  it  appears  certain  that, 
in  the  present  instance  [Henry  VIII.],  he  suffered  himself  to  be  influenced 
by  this  undesirable  fashion."  —  Halliwell-Phillipps's  "  Outlines  of  the  Life  of 
Shakespeare,"  5th  ed.  p.  204. 

In  the  "  Illustrative  Notes,"  p.  586,  No.  258,  the  author  adds :  "  Shakespeare 
probably  wrote  verse  as  easily  as  prose,  and  very  few  species  of  dramatic  metre 
had  then  taken  an  absolute  form  by  precedent.  Even  if  it  had  been  otherwise, 
the  metrical  ear,  which,  like  that  for  music,  is  a  natural  gift,  musf,  in  his  case, 
have  revolted  from  a  subjection  to  normal  restrictions." 


80  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

would  seek  rather  to  penetrate  to  the  moulding  spirit  resident 
within  the  forms,  and  to  discover  why  in  one  play  that  mould- 
ing spirit  reached  out  oftener  after  extra  end-syllables  than  it  did 
in  the  other.  If  he  succeed  in  doing  this,  or  think  he  has  suc- 
ceeded, he  may  not  indeed  have  a  clue  to  the  priority  or  subse- 
quence of  one  of  two  or  more  plays,  but  he  will  have  a  new  assur- 
ance of  the  flexibility  of  the  poet's  spirit,  and  an  increased  faith 
in  the  organic  nature  of  his  forms. 

Extra  end-syllables  are  not,  indeed,  confined  to  the  spontaneous 
form  of  his  verse  —  they  occur  often  where  the  recitative  form  is 
in  the  ascendent. 

In  Hamlet's  first  soliloquy,  A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  129-158,  beginning, 

"  Oh,  that  this  too  too  solid  fleshovould  melt," 

the  effect  of  the  additional  light  syllables  which  occur  both  at  the 
end  of,  and  within  the  verses,  is  readily  felt  as  an  organic  effect  — 
they  express  the  rebound  of  the  speaker's  impulsive  feeling : 

"  Oh,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew : 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fixt 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter.     O  God,  O  God ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seems  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world ! 
Fie  on't !  oh  fie,  fie,  'tis  an  unweeded  garden 
That  grows  to  seed :  things  rank  and  gross  in  nature 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this ! 
But  two  months  dead  !    Nay,  not  so  much,  not  two  : 
So  excellent  a  king,  that  was  to  this 
Hyperion  to  a  Satyr :  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  Earth 
Must  I  remember?    Why  she  would  hang  on  him, 
As  if  encrease  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on ;  and  yet  within  a  month  — 
Let  me  not  think  on't —  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !  — 
A  little  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 


SHAKESPEARE S    VERSE.  8 1 

With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 

Like  Niobe,  all  tears,  —  why  she,  even  she,  — 

(O  Heaven  !    a  beast  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 

Would  have  mourn'd  longer)  married  with  my  uncle, 

My  father's  brother,  but  no  more  like  my  father 

Than  I  to  Hercules.     Within  a  month? 

Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 

Had  left  the  flushing  of  her  galled  eyes, 

She  married !    O,  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 

With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  sheets ! 

It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to  good. 

But  break  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue." 

In  the  soliloquy,  "To  be  or  not  to  be,"  the  additional  light J 
syllables  impart  a  reflectiveness  of  tone  to  the  language  : 

"  To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  For/z/;/£, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  trouto1, 
And  by  opposing  end  them : " 

I  fancy  that  Shakespeare  must  sometimes  have  heard  some  of 
the  speeches  of  his  characters  independently  of  the  thoughts  ex- 
pressed, and  that  he  fashioned  them  after  the  sound  that  was  in 
his  mind. 

Although  the  particular  effects  of  the  extra  end- syllables  cannot 
always  be  set  forth,  every  one  who  is  susceptible  to  verse,  must 
feel  more  or  less  their  organic  character,  in  Shakespeare's  verse. 

There  is  often  an  effective  mingling  of  verses  having  extra  end- 
syllables  with  verses  having  the  normal  ending  on  accented  sylla- 
bles. The  soliloquy  of  Gloster  with  which  the  play  of  Richard  III. 
opens,  is  a  good  illustration  of  this. 

The  extra  end-syllable  has  an  agreeable  effect  when  it  crops  out 
after  a  succession  of  smooth  verses,  as  in  the  4th  verse  of  this 
soliloquy : 

"  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun  of  York : 


82  SHAKESPEARE'S    VERSE. 

And  all  the  clouds  that  lour'd  upon  our  house 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried." 

In  the  four  following  verses  of  the  soliloquy  (28-31),  there  is 
an  effective  alternation  of  the  normal  and  of  extra-syllable  endings  : 

"  And  therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 
I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain 
And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days." 

While  with  Shakespeare  the  extra  end-syllable  is  more  or  less 
organic,  and  imparts  a  liveliness  to  the  verse,  with  Fletcher  it  is 
often  a  cold,  monotonous  mannerism. 


DISTINCTIVE    USE    OF   VERSE    AND  PROSE.  83 


DISTINCTIVE   USE   OF  VERSE   AND    PROSE 
IN    SHAKESPEARE'S    PLAYS. 


NO  writer  has  exhibited  the  power  which  "  the  great  protago- 
nist in  the  arena  of  modern  poetry  "  has  exhibited,  of  mar- 
shalling words,  of  stimulating  language  to  its  utmost  capacity,  and 
moulding  it  into  the  "infinite  variety  "  of  organic  form  demanded 
by  all  the  possible  attitudes  of  the  mind  and  the  sensibilities.  I 
say  organic  form ;  for,  although  he  adopted,  at  the  outset,  as  the 
general  tenor  of  his  language,  forms  employed  by  his  predecessors 
and  contemporaries,  yet,  such  was  the  plastic  power  of  his  mind 
and  feelings  over  them  that  they,  the  forms,  were  gradually  brought 
more  and  more  under  easy  submission  and  became  more  and  more 
organic,  or,  in  other  words,*  inseparable  from  the  thought  and  emo- 
tion embodied  therein.  He  was  the  first  to  mingle,  organically,  in 
dramatic  composition,  blank  verse  and  rhyming  verse,  and  prose. 
These  are  all  found  in  harmonious  union,  often  within  the  limits  of 
a  short  scene.  He  may  never  have  defined  to  his  own  mind,  the 
peculiar  and  legitimate  functions  of  each  of  these  modes  of  lan- 
guage-shaping, but  he  must  have  had  the  nicest  and  most  reliable 
feeling  as  to  their  use.  He  passes  from  blank  verse  to  rhyme  and 
from  rhyme  to  prose,  and  back  again  to  blank  verse,  and  the  reader 
feels  all  the  while,  generally,  perhaps  without  thinking  so,  that  it's 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  do.  The  rationale  and  the 
morale  of  the  varied  phases  which  his  verse  presents  at  different 
periods  of  his  career,  it  is  often  difficult  to  determine ;  but  it  is 
not  so  difficult  to  note  the  distinctive  use  of  the  two  grand  divis- 
ions of  language-shaping,  Prose  and  Verse,  throughout  all  the 
Plays.  In  the  first  place,  all  the  dramatis  personal  that  are  not 


84  DISTINCTIVE    USE   OF  VERSE  AND 

I/ drawn  into  the  higher  movements  of  thought  and  feeling,  are,  gener- 
ally, made  to  speak  in  straightforward  prose.  (This,  however,  is 
not  so  true  of  the  earlier  Plays  as  it  is  of  the  later.  Shakespeare's 
nice  sense  of  the  peculiar  domains  of  Verse  and  Prose  was  gradu- 
ally developed  along  with  other  developments,  one  of  the  most 
important  of  which  was  humour.*  As  Dowden  says,  "  Had  Shak- 
spere  written  the  play  [Richard  II.]  a  few  years  later,  we  may 
be  certain  that  the  gardener  and  servants  (A.  III.  Sc.  iv.)  would 
not  have  uttered  stately  speeches  in  verse,  but  would  have  spoken 
homely  prose,  and  that  humour  would  have  mingled  with  the 
pathos  of  this  scene.  The  same  remark  may  be  made  with  refer- 
ence to  the  subsequent  scene,  in  which  his  groom  visits  the  de- 
throned King  in  the  Tower."  And  even  the  leading  persons  of 
the  drama,  in  situations  demanding  no  idealization  of  language, 
speak  often  in  prose.  IJamlet  speaks  in  verse  to  his  mother,  to 
his  bosom  friend  Horatio,  to  the  majestic  ghost  of  his  father,  and 
in  his  soliloquies ;  but  to  the  old  chancellor  Polonius  whom  he 
despises,  to  the  time-serving  courtiers,  to  the  players,  and  in  the 
scene  with  the  grave-diggers,  he  speaks  in  the  most  off-hand  prose. 
But  in  this  last  scene,  when  his  mind  turns  to  the  great  Roman,  he 
speaks  then  not  only  in  verse  but  in  rhymed  verse  : 

"  Imperious  Caesar,  dead  and  turn'd  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away : 
O,  that  the  earth  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 
Should  patch  a  wall  t'expel  the  winter's  flaw ! " 

A  character  like  Falstaff,  speaks,  of  course,  in  prose.  Great 
and  various  as  are  the  possibilities  by  which  Falstaff  s  actual  self 
is  backed,  his  higher  faculties  are  always  under  the  cloud  of 
sensual  indulgence ;  and  like  all  sensualists,  his  mind  never  rises 
above  considerations  of  self —  never  reaches  that  pitch  of  thought! 
and  feeling  which  demands  a  rhythmical  and  metrical  form  of! 


*  See  "  Dowden's  Shakspere :  his  Mind  and  Art."    Chap.  vii.   "  The  Humour 
of  Shakspere." 


PROBE  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS.  85 

language.      He  affects  indeed,  such  a  form,  in  A.  II.  Sc.  iv.,  of 
i  Henry  IV. : 

"Fal.  Well,  thou  wilt  be  horribly  chid  to-morrow  when  thou 
comest  to  thy  father :  if  thou  love  me,  practise  an  answer. 

Prince.  Do  thou  stand  for  my  father,  and  examine  me  upon 
the  particulars  of  my  life. 

Fal.  Shall  I  ?  content :  this  chair  shall  be  my  state,  this  dagger 
my  sceptre,  and  this  cushion  my  crown. 

Prince.  Thy  state  is  taken  for  a  joined-stool,  thy  golden  sceptre 
for  a  leaden  dagger,  and  thy  precious  rich  crown  for  a  pitiful  bald 
crown  ! 

Fal.  Well,  an  the  fire  of  grace  be  not  quite  out  of  thee,  now 
shalt  thou  be  moved.  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack  to  make  my  eyes 
look  red,  that  it  may  be  thought  I  have  wept ;  for  I  must  speak  in 
passion,  and  I  will  do  it  in  King  Cambyses'  vein. 

Princt.   Well,  here  is  my  leg. 

Fal.   And  here  is  my  speech.     Stand  aside,  nobility. 

Hostess.    O  Jesu,  this  is  excellent  sport,  i'  faith  ! 

FaL   Weep  not,  sweet  queen,  for  trickling  tears  are  vain. 

Hostess.   O,  the  father,  how  he  holds  his  countenance  ! 

Fal.   For  God's  sake,  lords,  convey  my  tristful  *  queen ; 
For  tears  do  stop  the  flood-gates  of  her  eyes. 

Hostess.  O  Jesu,  he  doth  it  as  like  one  of  these  harlotry  players 
as  ever  I  see  !  " 

This  is  all  the  metrical  language  which  Falstaff  utters,  except 
the  two  verses  addressed  to  King  Henry  V.,  in  2  Henry  IV.,  A.  V. 
Sc.  v.  42  and  50  : 

"  Fal.    God  save  thy  grace,  King  Hal !  my  royal  Hal !  .  .  . 

Chief  Justice.  Have  you  your  wits?  Know  you  what  'tis  you 
speak  ? 

Fal.   My  King  !  my  Jove  !  I  speak  to  thee,  my  heart ! 

King.   I  know  thee  not,  old  man  :  fall  to  thy  prayers ;  .  .  ." 

An  interesting  transition  from  prose  to  verse,  is  shown  ip 
3d  Scene  of  the  ist  Act  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice.    While  Bas- 

*Trustfull:  Qq.,  Ff. 


86  DISTINCTIVE    USE    OF  VERSE  AND 

sanio  is  negotiating  with  Shylock  for  a  loan  of  three  thousand 
ducats,  for  three  months,  for  the  repayment  of  which  Antonio  is 
to  be  bound,  the  talk  is  in  business-like  prose,  and  quite  unim- 
passioned  except  in  Shylock's  speech  in  reply  to  Bassanio's  pro- 
posal that  he  dine  with  him  and  Antonio  : 

"  Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habitation  which  your  prophet, 
the  Nazarite,  conjured  the  devil  into.  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell 
with  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so  following ;  but  I 
will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with  you." 

This  speech,  by  the  way,  coming  just  before  the  entrance  of 
Antonio,  serves  well  as  a  transition  to  the  language-shaping  which 
follows.  When  Antonio  comes  in,  against  whom  he  has  long  borne 
bitter  grudges  for  wrongs  done  him,  real  or  imaginary,  Shylock's 
feelings  are  intensified,  and  the  language  is  at  once  moulded  into 
metre,  the  pulse  of  which  rises  highest  in  the  following  speech : 

"  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  moneys  and  my  usances : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ; 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spet  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to,  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
*  Shylock,  we  would  have  moneys  : '  you  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  —  moneys  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you?     Should  I  not  say, 
'  Hath  a  dog  money  ?     Is  it  possible 
A  cur  should  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ? '     Or 
Should  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  bated  breath  and  whispering  humbleness, 
Say  this : 
'  Fair  sir,  you  spet  on  me  on  Wednesday  last ; 


PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS.  87 

You  spurn'd  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  call'd  me  dog ;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I'll  lend  you  thus  much  moneys.' " 

Antonio's  reply  is  the  highest-pulsed  speech  which  he  utters,  in 
the  scene ;  and  then  Shylock  tones  down,  and  an  agreement  in 
regard  to  the  loan  is  finally  arrived  at. 

The  scene  is  rounded  off  with  two  rhymes  : 

"  Antonio.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew.  {Exit  SHYLOCK. 

The  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian :  he  grows  kind. 

Bassanio.    I  like  not  fair  terms  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Antonio.     Come  on  :  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay ; 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day." 

A  remarkable  illustration,  one  of  the  most  remarkable,  perhaps, 
in  Shakespeare,  of  changes  in  language-shaping  adapted  to  the 
varied  pitch  of  thought  and  feeling,  is  afforded  by  the  3d  Scene  of 
the  ist  Act  of  Othello,  wherein  the  Moor,  accused  by  Brabantio 
of  having  won  his  daughter  Desdemona  by  love-potions  and 
witchcraft,  makes  his  defence  before  the  Duke  and  Senators  of 
Venice,  and  tells  the  story  of  his  courtship. 

When  he  addresses  the  Senators,  he  employs  language  indica- 
tive of  a  self-sustained  dignity,  but  free  from  the  least  touch  of 
arrogance.  There  is  a  certain  weight  imparted  to  the  movement 
of  the  verse  by  a  more  than  usual  correspondence  of  the  rhythmi- 
cal ictus  with  the  logical  emphasis.  The  double-endings  which 
occur,  " masters,"  "daughter,"  "offending,"  "battle,"  "patience," 
"deliver,"  "magic,"  impart  a  certain  decisiveness  of  tone;  the 
breaks  in  the  verse,  too,  come  after  complete  feet : 

"  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters, 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ;  true,  I  have  married  her : 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my  speech, 


88  DISTINCTIVE    USE   OF  VERSE  AND 

And  little  blest  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace ; 

For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith, 

Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  used 

Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field ; 

And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 

More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle ; 

And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 

In  speaking  for  myself.     Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 

I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 

Of  my  whole  course  of  love  ;  what  drugs,  what  charms, 

What  conjuration  and  what  mighty  magic  — 

For  such  proceeding  I  am  charged  withal  — 

I  won  his  daughter." 

When  Othello  speaks  of  his  courtship,  the  stateliness  of  the 
verse  is  somewhat  reduced,  and  his  speech  is  characterized  by  an 
ingenuousness  of  tone  to  which  the  movement  of  the  verse  is 
admirably  adapted  : 

"  Her  father  loved  me ;  oft  invited  me  ; 
Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year,  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it ; 
Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field, 
Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach, 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 
And  sold  to  slavery,  of  my  redemption  thence 
And  portance  in  my  travels'  history : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle, 
Rough  quarries,  rocks  and  hills  whose  heads  touch  heaven, 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  —  such  was  the  process ; 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 
But  still  the  house-affairs  would  draw  her  thence : 


PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS.  89 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch, 

She'ld  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 

Devour  up  my  discourse  :  which  I  observing, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 

That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 

Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 

But  not  intentively :  I  did  consent, 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 

When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 

That  my  youth  suffer'd.     My  story  being  done, 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 

She  swore,  in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange, 

'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 

She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 

That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man ;  she  thank'd  me, 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 

I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 

And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  I  spake : 

She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 

And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used : 

Here  comes  the  lady ;  let  her  witness  it." 

At  the  close  of  his  story,  Desdemona  enters.  To  the  question 
of  her  father,  "  Do  you  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company  Where 
most  you  owe  obedience?"  she  replies  in  blank  verse,  which  has 
the  directness  of  prose ;  the  rhythmus,  too,  is  kept  down,  and  the 
whole  is  raised  just  so  much  above  prose  as  is  necessary  to  ex- 
press the  daughter's  respect  for  the  father  —  the  closeness  of  their 
relationship  not  allowing  a  form  of  language  any  more  elevated 
than  what  she  employs.  The  additional  light  syllables  which 
occur  at  the  end  of  some  of  the  verses,  (and  there  are  two  within 
the  verse,  before  breaks,  "respect  |  you  ;  "  "your  daugh|  ter  :  ") 
serve  to  neutralize  somewhat  the  rhythmical  effect : 

"  My  noble  father, 
I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty : 


90  DISTINCTIVE    USE    OF   VERSE  AND 

To  you  I  am  bound  for  life  and  education ; 

My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 

How  to  respect  you  ;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty : 

I  am  hitherto  your  daughter :  but  here's  my  husband, 

And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 

To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 

So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 

Due  to  the  Moor  my  lord." 

The  first  three  lines  of  Brabantio's  reply  in  which  he  gives  up 
the  case,  are  not  distinguishable  from  prose ;  and  their  off-hand 
movement  serves  to  express  the  grieved  old  man's  submission  to 
the  state  of  things. 

"  God  be  with  you !  —  I  have  done.  — 
Please  it  your  grace,  on  to  the  state  affairs ; 
I  had  rather  to  adopt  a  child  than  get  it." 

When  he  addresses  the  Moor,  his  speech  is  slightly  elevated  and 
decided  in  movement,  which  latter  feature  is  helped  by  the  mono- 
syllabic words : 

**  Come  hither,  Moor: 
I  here  do  give  thee  that  with  all  my  heart, 
Which,  but  thou  hast  already,  with  all  my  heart 
I  would  keep  from  thee.    For  your  sake,  jewel, 
I  am  glad  at  soul  I  have  no  other  child ; 
For  thy  escape  would  teach  me  tyranny, 
To  hang  clogs  on  them.    I  have  done,  my  lord." 

Of  the  Duke's  speech  in  reply,  the  first  three  lines  are  scarcely 
verse  at  all,  and  their  prose  effect  is  helped  by  the  extra  end-sylla- 
bles of  the  words  "  sentence,"  "  lovers,"  "  favour."  With  such  an 
introduction,  the  sententious  character  of  the  rest  of  the  speech 
is  more  brought  out.  It  has  a  marked  rhythmical  movement,  and 
the  metre  is  enforced  by  rhyme,  and  one  of  the  rhymes  is  rendered 
more  emphatic  by  being  a  double  rhyme,  —  ended,  depended.  In 
addition  thereto,  each  couplet  constitutes  a  sentence  composed  of 
two  balanced  members,  and  each  member  makes  a  distinct  verse  : 


PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE 'S  PLAYS.  91 

"  Duke.   Let  me  speak  like  yourself,  and  lay  a  sentence 
Which,  as  a  grise  or  step,  may  help  these  lovers 
Into  your  favour. 

When  remedies  are  past,  the  griefs  are  ended 
By  seeing  the  worst,  which  late  on  hopes  depended. 
To  mourn  a  mischief  that  is  past  and  gone 
Is  the  next  way  to  draw  new  mischief  on. 
What  cannot  be  preserved  when  fortune  takes, 
Patience  her  injury  a  mockery  makes. 
The  robbed  that  smiles  steals  something  from  the  thief ; 
He  robs  himself  that  spends  a  bootless  grief." 

Brabantio,  with  a  bitterness  of  spirit,  retorts  in  the  same  senten- 
tious, markedly  rhythmical,  and  strongly  rhymed  language.  But 
as  indicating  that  he  is  completely  done  with  the  case,  his  speech 
ends  with  a  line  of  pure  prose  :  "  I  humbly  beseech  you,  proceed 
to  the  affairs  of  state  :  " 

"  So  let  the  Turk  of  Cyprus  us  beguile ; 
We  lose  it  not,  so  long  as  we  can  smile. 
He  bears  the  sentence  well,  that  nothing  bears 
But  the  free  comfort  which  from  thence  he  hears ; 
But  he  bears  both  the  sentence  and  the  sorrow, 
That,  to  pay  grief,  must  of  poor  patience  borrow. 
These  sentences,  to  sugar  or  to  gall, 
Being  strong  on  both  sides,  are  equivocal : 
But  words  are  words  ;  I  never  yet  did  hear 
That  the  bruised  heart  was  pierced  through  the  ear. 
I  humbly  beseech  you,  proceed  to  the  affairs  of  state." 

The  Duke's  speech  which  follows  is  in  the  most  straightfor- 
ward prose,  which  is  felt  to  be  the  only  proper  medium  of  a  plain 
matter-of-fact  order  to  his  general : 

"  The  Turk  with  a  most  mighty  preparation  makes  for  Cyprus. 
Othello,  the  fortitude  of  the  place  is  best  known  to  you  ;  and  though 
we  have  there  a  substitute  of  most  allowed  sufficiency,  yet  opinion, 
a  sovereign  mistress  of  effects,  throws  a  more  safer  voice  on  you  : 
you  must  therefore  be  content  to  slubber  the  gloss  of  your  new 
fortunes  with  this  more  stubborn  and  boisterous  expedition." 


92  DISTINCTIVE    USE    OF  VERSE  AND 

Othello  replies  in  blank  verse  whose  movement  expresses  the 
in  procinctu  state  of  the  brave  soldier's  mind  : 

"  The  tyrant  custom,  most  grave  senators, 
Hath  made  the  flinty  and  steel  couch  of  war 
My  thrice-driven  bed  of  down :  I  do  agnize 
A  natural  and  prompt  alacrity 
I  find  in  hardness  ;  and  do  undertake 
These  present  wars  against  the  Ottomites. 
Most  humbly  therefore  bending  to  your  state, 
I  crave  fit  disposition  for  my  wife, 
Due  reference  of  place  and  exhibition, 
With  such  accommodation  and  besort 
As  levels  with  her  breeding." 

To  draw  the  line  between  the  domains  of  prose  and  verse,  is  not 
easy.  But  Shakespeare's  works  afford  perhaps  the  best  material 
for  determining  those  domains,  when  the  critic  shall  appear  whose 
art  vision  is  clear  enough 

"to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play," 

and  to  penetrate  to  the  laws  underlying  his  use  of  these  forms  of 
language.  This  should  be  said,  however,  that  Shakespeare  adopted 
verse  as  the  general  tenor  of  his  language,  and  therefore  expresses 
much  in  verse  that  is  within  the  capabilities  of  prose ;  in  other 
words,  his  verse  constantly  encroaches  upon  the  domain  of  prose, 
but  his  prose  can  never  be  said  to  encroach  upon  the  domain  of 
verse. 

The  nearest  approach  to  it,  perhaps,  is  in  the  prose  speech 
of  Hamlet,  A.  II.  Sc.  ii.  .  .  .  "  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth, 
seems  to  me  a  sterile  promontory ;  this  most  excellent  canopy, 
the  air,  look  you,  this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majesti- 
cal  roof,  fretted  with  golden  fire,  why,  it  appears  no  other  thing  to 
me  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapours.  What  a 


PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS.  93 

piece  of  work  is  a  man  !  how  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite  in 
faculty !  in  form  and  moving  how  express  and  admirable  !  in 
action,  how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension  how  like  a  god  !  the 
beauty  of  the  world  !  the  paragon  of  animals  !  " 

There  are  two  characteristics  of  the  material  of  legitimate  verse 
(characteristics  which  are  the  result  of  the  very  feeling  which  pro- 
duces verse) ,  by  which  it  is  especially  differentiated  from  prose 
material,  namely,  the  general  concreteness  and  the  imaginative 
imputation  which  it  exhibits,  resulting  from  the  intense  sympathy 
which  animates  great  poets.  The  concrete  is,  so  to  speak,  the 
vernacular  language,  the  indispensable  medium,  wherethrough 
poetic  passion  is  manifested,  which,  when  intense,  must  needs 
radiate  into  numerous  images  furnished  by  nature  and  by  human 
life.  These  images  may  be  regarded  as  the  harmonies  into  which 
the  melody  or  rhythmus  of  his  thought  is  ever  tending  to  run,  and 
the  more  impassioned  this  melody  or  rhythmus,  the  greater  the 
necessity  thus  to  expand  itself. 

When  Macbeth  tells  his  wife  that  a  dreadful  deed  shall  be  com- 
mitted before  nightfall,  the  intensity  of  his  feelings  at  the  time 
radiates  into  imagery  and  epithet  which  are  beyond  what  the  most 
impassioned  prose  could  sustain  : 

"  Ere  that  the  bat  hath  flown 

His  cloister'd  flight ;  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
The  shard-borne  beetle  with  its  drowsy  hums 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  dead  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.   What's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.    Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed.  —  Come,  seeling  night ! 
Skarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day, 
And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 
Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale  !  —  Light  thickens  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood  : 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse, 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse.— 


94  DISTINCTIVE    USE    OF  VERSE  AND 

Thou  marvelPst  at  my  words  :   but  hold  thee  still ; 
Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill :  " 

It  is  through  his  epithets  and  his  metaphors  that  a  great  poet 
reveals  the  intensity  of  his  sympathies,  the  depth  of  his  spiritual 
insight,  and  his  recognition  of  the  moral  aspect  of  things.  If  he 
takes  in  only  their  familiar  and  general  outlines,  and  their  more 
prominent  features,  his  epithets  will,  as  a  consequence,  be  com- 
monplace ;  they  will  be  stock  epithets,  embodying  only  the  popu- 
lar idea.  If  his  sympathies  are  feeble,  he  will  not  think  in  and 
by  and  through  his  figures,  but  he  will  hitch  them  on  to  his  thought 
and  sentiment.  In  regard  to  a  poet's  use  of  epithets,  it  may  also 
be  remarked,  that  his  all-embracing  sympathy,  and  the  tendency 
of  his  imagination  to  imbue  all  things  with  feeling,  will  often 
cause  him  to  transfer  an  epithet  from  the  word  whose  idea  it  prop- 
erly qualifies,  to  another  to  which  it  is  logically  inapplicable,  but 
which  is  thus  brought  more  within  the  embrace  of  the  sympathies ; 

for  example : 

"  LealsM  is  our  bark, 

And  we,  poor  mates,  stand  on  the  dying  deck, 
Hearing  the  surges  threat :  "  —  T.  of  A.  IV.  ii.  20. 

' '  He  only  lived  but  till  he  was  a  man ; 
The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought, 
But  like  a  man  he  died."  —  Macbeth  V.  viii.  42. 

A  signal  example  of  how  Shakespeare  raised  prose  material  into 
glowing  and  luxuriant  poetry,  is  afforded  by  the  description  in  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra  (A.  II.  Sc.  ii.  196-231),  given  by  Enobarbus  to 
Agrippa,  of  Cleopatra's  sailing  down  the  Cydnus  to  meet  Antony, 
the  circumstances  of  which,  Shakespeare  derived  from  North's 
Plutarch.*  (See  Commentary  on  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  in  this 
volume.) 


*"This  version,  called  by  Warton  Shakespeare's  'storehouse  of  learned 
history,'  was  made  by  Sir  Thomas  North.  The  translation  was  made,  not  from 
the  original  Greek,  but  from  a  French  version  by  Jaques  Amyot,  bishop  of 


PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS.  95 

Superior  as  is  Shakespeare's  verse  to  that  of  all  his  dramatic 
contemporaries,  and  they  all,  with  very  few  exceptions,  wrote 
verse  of  great  vitality,*  his  prose  is  not  less  superior  to  all  English 
prose,  produced  in  every  department  of  literature  down  to,  and 
many  years  subsequent  to,  his  time.  The  prose  of  Bacon's  Essays 
would  probably  first  occur  to  many  as  bearing  the  palm  of  highest 
excellence  reached  at  the  time  it  was  produced.  But  it  is  cramped 
and  rugged  in  comparison  with  Shakespeare's  best  prose.  Take, 
for  example,  the  2d  Scene  of  the  5th  Act  of  The  Winter's  Tale, 
11.  i— 121.  As  dramatic  prose,  this  has  a  corresponding  excellence 
with  the  blank  verse  of  the  26.  Scene  of  the  ist  Act  of  The  Tem- 
pest, beyond  which  dramatic  blank  verse  has  never  gone.  If 
Shakespeare  did  not  write  this  prose  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  Bacon 
certainly  did  not. 

"  Enter  AUTOLYCUS  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.   Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this  relation  ? 

i  Gent.   I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel ;  heard  the  old 


Auxerre.  It  was  first  published  in  1579,  the  dedication  to  Queen  Elizabeth 
being  dated  Jan.  6,  and  his  address  to  the  Reader  Jan.  24,  2d  edition  1595. 
Other  editions  appeared  in  1603,  1612,  1631,  1656,  and  1676.  A  selection 
from  the  Lives  in  North's  Plutarch  which  illustrate  Shakespeare's  Plays,  has 
been  edited  with  notes,  etc.,  by  the  Rev.  Walter  W.  Skeat,  London,  1875." 

*  "  What  it  was  that  happened  to  the  English  ear  after  that  [the  Eliza- 
bethan era]  I  know  not;  perhaps  I  may  have  abandoned  my  own  too  exclu- 
sively to  their  music  and  become  insensible  or  intolerant  to  what  succeeded; 
but  for  more  than  a  hundred  years  the  art  of  writing  anything  but  the  heroic 
couplet  seems  to  have  been  lost,  which  couplet,  I  confess,  it  costs  me  almost 
an  heroic  effort  to  read;  and  when  our  verse  ceased  to  clank  this  chain,  it  rose 
into  lyrical  movements  of  some  force  and  freedom,  but  to  me  it  seems  never 
to  have  recovered  the  subtle  and  searching  power  and  consonantal  pith  which 
it  lost  in  that  fatal  eighteenth  century,  when  our  language  itself  was  dethroned 
and  levelled.  The  blank  verse  of  Young  and  Cowper  in  the  last  century,  or 
(with  the  exception  of  occasional  passages)  of  Southey  and  Wordsworth  in  this, 
is,  to  my  mind,  no  more  like  that  of  the  better  Elizabethans  than  a  turnpike 
road  is  like  a  bridle  path,  or  a  plantation  like  a  forest."  —  From  letter  of 
Henry  Taylor  to  Sir  John  Heischel,  Aug.  26,  1862  ("Correspondence  of 
H.  T.,  edited  by  Edward  Dowden,"  pp.  243,  244). 


96  DISTINCTIVE    USE    OF   VERSE  AND 

shepherd  deliver  the  manner  how  he  found  it :  whereupon,  after 
a  little  amazedness,  we  were  all  commanded  out  of  the  chamber ; 
only  this  methought  I  heard  the  shepherd  say,  he  found  the  child. 
Aut.    I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of  it. 

1  Gent.   I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  business ;   but  the 
changes  I  perceived  in  the  king  and  Camillo  were  very  notes  of 
admiration :  they  seemed  almost,  with  staring  on  one  another,  to 
tear  the  cases  of  their  eyes ;  there  was  speech  in  their  dumbness, 
language  in  their  very  gesture  ;  they  looked  as  they  had  heard  of  a 
world  ransomed,  or  one  destroyed :  a  notable  passion  of  wonder 
appeared  in  them :  but  the  wisest  beholder,  that  knew  no  more 
but  seeing,  could  not  say  if  the  importance  were  joy  or  sorrow ; 
but  in  the  extremity  of  the  one  it  must  needs  be. 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 

Here  comes  a  gentleman  that  haply  knows  more  :  The  news, 
Rogero  ? 

2  Gent.   Nothing  but  bonfires  :  the  oracle  is  fulfilled  ;  the  king's 
daughter  is  found :  such  a  deal  of  wonder  is  broken  out  within 
this  hour,  that  ballad-makers  cannot  be  able  to  express  it. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

Here  comes  the  lady  Paulina's  steward ;  he  can  deliver  you  more. 
How  goes  it  now,  sir?  this  news,  which  is  called  true,  is  so  like  an 
old  tale,  that  the  verity  of  it  is  in  strong  suspicion :  has  the  king 
found  his  heir? 

3  Gent.   Most   true ;   if  ever  truth  were  pregnant  by  circum- 
stance; that  which  you  hear  you'll  swear  you  see,  there  is  such 
unity  in  the  proofs.     The  mantle  of  queen  Hermione's,  her  jewel 
about  the  neck  of  it,  the  letters  of  Antigonus  found  with  it  which 
they  know  to  be  his  character,  the  majesty  of  the  creature,  in 
resemblance   of  the   mother,   the   affection   of  nobleness,  which 
nature  shows  above  her  breeding,  and  many  other  evidences,  pro- 
claim her,  with  all  certainty,  to  be  the  king's  daughter.     Did  you 
see  the  meeting  of  the  two  kings  ? 


PROSE  IN  SHAKESPEARE^  S  PLAYS. 


97 


2  Gent.   No. 

3  Gent.   Then   have   you  lost  a  sight,  which  was  to  be  seen, 
cannot  be  spoken   of.     There   might   you  have  beheld  one  joy 
crown  another,  so  and  in  such  manner,  that  it  seemed  sorrow  wept 
to  take  leave  of  them  j  for  their  joy  waded  in  tears.     There  was 
casting  up  of  eyes,  holding  up  of  hands;  with  countenance  of 
such  distraction,  that  they  were  to  be  known  by  garment,  not  by 
favour.     Our  king,  being  ready  to  leap  out  of  himself  for  joy  of 
his  found  daughter,  as  if  that  joy  were  now  become  a  loss,  cries, 
'  Oh,  thy  mother,  thy  mother  ! '  then  asks  Bohemia  forgiveness ; 
then  embraces  his  son-in-law ;  then  again  worries  he  his  daughter, 
with  clipping  her ;  now  he  thanks  the  old  shepherd,  which  stands 
by,  like  a  weather-bitten  conduit  of  many  kings'  reigns.     I  never 
heard  of  such  another  encounter,  which  lames  report  to  follow  it, 
and  undoes  description  to  do  it. 

2  Gent.  What,  'pray   you,  became  of  Antigonus,  that  carried 
hence  the  child? 

3  Gent.   Like  an  old  tale  still ;  which  will  have  matter  to  re- 
hearse, though  credit  be  asleep,  and  not  an  ear  open.     He  was 
torn  to  pieces  with  a  bear  :  this  avouches  the  shepherd's  son  ;  who 
has  not  only  his  innocence  (which  seems  much)  to  justify  him, 
but  a  handkerchief  and  rings  of  his  that  Paulina  knows. 

i  Gent.  What  became  of  his  bark,  and  his  followers? 

3  Gent.  Wracked  the  same  instant  of  their  master's  death,  and 
in  the  view  of  the  shepherd :  so  that  all  the  instruments  which 
aided  to  expose  the  child,  were  even  then  lost,  when  it  was  found. 
But,  oh  the  noble  combat  that  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow  was  fought  in 
Paulina  !  She  had  one  eye  declined  for  the  loss  of  her  husband, 
another  elevated  that  the  oracle  was  fulfilled  :  she  lifted  the  prin- 
cess from  the  earth,  and  so  locks  her  in  embracing,  as  if  she  would 
pin  her  to  her  heart,  that  she  might  no  more  be.  jn  danger  of 
loosing. 

i  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  was  worth  the  audience  of 
kings  and  princes ;  for  by  such  was  it  acted. 

3  Gent.    One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  and  that  which 


98  DISTINCTIVE    USE   OF  VERSE  AND  PROSE. 

angled  for  mine  eyes  (caught  the  water,  though  not  the  fish),  was, 
when  at  the  relation  of  the  queen's  death,  with  the  manner  how 
she  came  to  it,  (bravely  confessed,  and  lamented  by  the  king,) 
how  attentiveness  wounded  his  daughter;  till,  from  one  sign  of 
dolour  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  '  alas  ! '  I  would  fain  say, 
bleed  tears ;  for,  I  am  sure,  my  heart  wept  blood.  Who  was  most 
marble  there  changed  colour :  some  swooned,  all  sorrowed :  if  all 
the  world  could  have  seen  %  the  woe  had  been  universal. 

1  Gent.   Are  they  returned  to  the  court? 

3  Gent.  No  :  the  princess  hearing  of  her  mother's  statue,  which 
is  in  the  keeping  of  Paulina,  —  a  piece  many  years  in  doing,  and 
now  newly  performed  by  that  rare  Italian  master,  Julio  Romano ; 
who,  had  he  himself  eternity,  and  could  put  breath  into  his  work, 
would  beguile  nature  of  her  custom,  so  perfectly  he  is  her  ape  : 
he  so  near  to  Hermione  hath  done  Hermione  that  they  say  one 
would  speak  to  her  and  stand  in  hope  of  answer :  thither,  with 
all  greediness  of  affection,  are  they  gone ;  and  there  they  intend 
to  sup. 

2  Gent.   I  thought  she  had  some  great  matter  there  in  hand ; 
for  she  hath  privately,  twice  or  thrice  a  day,  ever  since  the  death 
of  Hermione,  visited  that  removed  house.     Shall  we  thither,  and 
with  our  company  piece  the  rejoicing? 

i  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence  that  has  the  benefit  of  access? 
every  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new  grace  will  be  born  :  our  absence 
makes  us  unthrifty  to  our  knowledge.  Let's  along. 

[Exeunt  Gentlemen." 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  99 


THE  LATIN  AND  THE  ANGLO-SAXON  ELE- 
MENTS OF  SHAKESPEARE'S  ENGLISH,  AND 
THE  MONOSYLLABIC  VOCABULARY, 

IN    THEIR     RELATIONS    TO     THE    INTELLECTUAL,    THE    EMO- 
TIONAL,   AND    THE    DRAMATIC. 

THE  peculiar  domains  of  the  Latin  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  ele- 
ments of  the  English  language  have  been  sufficiently  defined 
by  numerous  writers  well  qualified  for  the  task.  Thomas  De 
Quincey  has  distinguished  these  domains,  in  his  Essay  on  Words- 
worth's Poetry,  with  his  characteristic  sagacity  and  rare  faculty  of 
discrimination:  "The  gamut  of  ideas,"  he  says,  "needs  a  corre- 
sponding gamut  of  expressions ;  the  scale  of  the  thinking,  which 
ranges  through  every  key,  exacts,  for  the  artist,  an  unlimited  com- 
mand over  the  entire  scale  of  the  instrument  which  he  employs. 
Never,  in  fact,  was  there  a  more  erroneous  direction  than  that 
given  by  a  modern  rector  of  the  Glasgow  University  to  the 
students,  —  viz.,  that  they  should  cultivate  the  Saxon  part  of  our 
language,  at  the  cost  of  the  Latin  part.  Nonsense  !  Both  are 
indispensable  ;  and,  speaking  generally  without  stopping  to  distin- 
guish as  to  subjects,  both  are  equally  indispensable.  Pathos,  in 
situations  which  are  homely,  or  at  all  connected  with  domestic 
affections,  naturally  moves  by  Saxon  words.  Lyrical  emotion  of 
every  kind,  which  (to  merit  the  name  of  lyrical}  must  be  in  the 
state  of  flux  and  reflux,  or,  generally,  of  agitation,  also  requires  the 
Saxon  element  of  our  language.  And  why?  Because  the  Saxon 
is  the  aboriginal  element ;  the  basis,  and  not  the  superstructure ; 
consequently,  it  comprehends  all  the  ideas  which  are  natural  to 
the  heart  of  man,  and  to  the  elementary  situations  of  life.  And, 


IOO  LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS. 

although  the  Latin  often  furnishes  us  with  duplicates  of  these 
ideas,  yet  the  Saxon  or  monosyllabic  part  has  the  advantage  of 
precedency  in  our  use  and  knowledge ;  for  it  is  the  language  of 
the  nursery,  whether  for  rich  or  poor,  in  which  great  philological 
academy,  no  toleration  is  given  to  words  in  ' osity*  or  ' ation.' 
There  is,  therefore,  a  great  advantage,  as  regards  the  consecration 
to  our  feelings,  settled,  by  usage  and  custom,  upon  the  Saxon 
strands,  in  the  mixed  yarn  of  our  native  tongue.  And,  universally, 
this  may  be  remarked  —  that,  whenever  the  passion  of  a  poem  is 
of  that  sort,  which  uses,  presumes,  or  postulates  the  ideas,  without 
seeking  to  extend  them,  Saxon  will  be  the  '  cocoon '  (to  speak  by 
the  language  applied  to  silkworms),  which  the  poem  spins  for 
itself.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  when  the  motion  of  the  feeling  is 
by  and  through  the  ideas,  where  (as  in  religious  or  meditative 
poetry  —  Young's,  for  instance,  or  Cowper's)  the  pathos  creeps 
and  kindles  underneath  the  very  tissues  of  the  thinking,  there  the 
Latin  will  predominate  ;  and  so  much  so,  that,  whilst  the  flesh,  the 
blood,  and  the  muscle,  will  be  often  almost  exclusively  Latin,  the 
articulations  only,  or  hinges  of  connections,  will  be  Anglo-Saxon." 
So  unperverted  were  Shakespeare's  instincts,  so  almost  infallible, 
in  the  use  of  words,  that  the  general  vocabulary  of  a  Play,  or 
even  the  special  vocabulary  of  a  speech,  is  a  quite  reliable  indica- 
tion of  the  key  in  which  it  is  pitched.  Troilus  and  Cressida,  for 
example,  is  the  most  intellectual  of  Shakespeare's  Plays ;  —  the 
wisdom  with  which  it  preeminently  abounds,  may  be  character- 
ized as  the  wisdom  of  the  intellect,*  rather  than  the  wisdom  of  the 
heart ;  and  its  intellectual  character  might  be  almost  guessed  by 


*Dryden,  who  "corrected"  the  Troilus  and  Cressida,  says  of  it  in  his 
Preface,  "  The  Tragedy  which  I  have  undertaken  to  correct,  was,  in  all  proba- 
bility, one  of  his  [Shakespeare's]  first  endeavors  on  the  stage  "  !  Further  on 
he  says  it  was  composed  "in  the  Apprenticeship  of  his  writing."  On  which 
Dr.  John  K.  Ingram  remarks,  "  How  any  person  of  moderate  discernment 
could  suppose  that  play,  so  full  of  knowledge  of  the  world  and  all  the  fruits  of 
ripe  reflection,  to  have  been  the  work  of  a  very  young  man,  I  confess,  passes 
my  comprehension." 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  101 

its  Latin  vocabulary  alone.  I  have  not  taken  the  pains  to  esti- 
mate the  percentage  of  its  Latin  vocabulary  aver  that  of  other 
plays ;  but  every  reader  of  the  Play  must  notice  that  this  vocabu- 
lary is  signally  more  extensive  than  in  a  play  with  so  large  an  ele- 
ment of  homely  pathos,  for  example,  as  is  in  King  Lear. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  element  of  the  English  language  is  largely 
monosyllabic;  and  the  part  which  monosyllabic  words  play  in 
Shakespeare's  diction,  is  one  that  it  is  important  to  take  account 
of,  in  a  study  of  his  language-shaping  as  organically  connected 
with  thought  and  feeling. 

(It  will  be  found  that  deep  feeling  of  every  kind  expresses  itself 
through,  and,  indeed,  attracts  to  itself,  the  monosyllabic  words  of 
the  language  ;  not  only  because  such  words  are,  for  the  most  part, 
Anglo-Saxon,  and  therefore  more  consecrated  to  feeling  than  to 
thought,  but  because  the  staccato  effect  which  can  be  secured 
through  them  rather  than  through  dissyllabic  and  trisyllabic  words, 
subserves  well  the  natural  movement  of  impassioned  speech.  Take, 
for  example,  this  passage  from  the  Song  of  Deborah  and  Barak, 
5th  chapter  of  Judges,  2yth  verse:  "At  her  feet  he  bowed,  he 
fell,  he  lay  down  :  at  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell :  where  he  bowed, 
there  he  fell  down  dead." 

The  three  following  lines  from  Juliet's  speech  to  the  Friar 
(Romeo  and  Juliet,  IV.  i.  84-86),  afford  a  good  example  of 
monosyllabic  effect ;  and  the  extra  end-syllable  of  the  the  third 
line,  adds  to  the  effect : 

"  Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave, 
And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud ; 
Things  that  to  hear  them  told,  have  made  me  tremble ;  " 

And  the  following  speeches  : 

"  Montague.    .  .  .  Hold  me  not,  let  me  go. 
Lady  M.   Thou  shalt  not  stir  one  foot  to  seek  a  foe." 

-R.  and  J.  I.  i.  72,  73. 

When  Juliet  entreats  to  delay  her  marriage  with  Paris,  her 
mother  replies  : 


102  LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS. 

"  Talk  not  to  me,  for  Fll  not  speak  a  word  : 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  have  done  with  thee." 

—  A.  III.  Sc.  v.  204,  205. 

In  the  speech  of  Martha  to  Jesus,  John  xi.  21,  22,  "Lord,  if 
thou  hadst  been  here,  my  brother  had  not  died.  But  I  know, 
that  even  now,  whatsoever  thou  wilt  ask  of  God,  God  will  give  it 
thee,"  how  much  the  feeling  of  the  speaker  is  subserved  by  the 
monosyllabic  words  in  which  the  speech  is  uttered  ! 

When  Una,  in  the  Fairie  Queene,  meets  with  Archimago,  in  the 
disguise  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight,  whom  to  find,  she  has  wandered 
many  a  wood,  and  measured  many  a  vale,  weeping  she  addresses 
him,  thinking  him  to  be  indeed  her  own  true  knight : 

"  Ah,  my  long  lacked  Lord, 
Where  have  ye  bene  thus  -long  out  of  my  sight  ? 
Much  feared  I  to  have  bene  quite  abhord, 
Or  ought  have  done,  that  ye  displeasen  might, 
That  should  as  death  unto  my  dear  heart  light : 
For  since  mine  eie  your  joyous  sight  did  mis, 
My  chearefull  day  is  turnd  to  cloudless  night, 
And  eke  my  night,  of  death  the  shadow  is ; 
But  welcome  now,  my  light,  and  shining  lamp  of  blis ! " 

76  words,  of  which  72  are  Saxon.  The  Saxon  vocabularly  alone, 
as  Saxon,  subserves  the  feeling  of  the  speaker ;  but  how  much  in 
addition  thereto  the  utterance  of  the  feeling  is  subserved  by  the 
monosyllabic  words  !  Take  especially  the  2d  verse  of  the  stanza ; 

"  Where  have  ye  bene  thus  long  out  of  my  sight?" 

Note  the  staccato  effect  of  the  monosyllabic  words,  "  So  downe  he 
fell,"  which  are  repeated  four  times  in  the  54th  Stanza,  of  Canto 
XI.  Book  i  of  the  Faerie  Queene.  The  stanza  occurs  in  the 
description  of  the  slaying  of  the  Dragon  by  the  Red-Cross  Knight : 

"  So  downe  he  fell,  and  forth  his  life  did  breath, 
That  vanisht  into  smoke  and  cloudes  swift ; 
So  downe  he  fell,  that  th1  earth  him  underneath 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  103 

Did  grone,  as  feeble  so  great  load  to  lift ; 
So  downe  he  fell,  as  an  huge  rocky  clift, 
Whose  false  foundation  waves  have  washt  away, 
With  dreadfull  poyse  is  from  the  mayneland  rift, 
And  rolling  downe  great  Neptune  doth  dismay  : 
So  downe  he  fell,  and  like  an  heaped  mountain  lay." 

The  first  verse  is  all  monosyllabic.  The  final  monosyllabic 
word  "  lay,"  after  the  dissyllabic  words  "  heaped  mountain,"  is 
effective.  So  in  Paradise  Lost,  Book  X.  w.  541,  542  : 

"  down  their  arms, 
t)own  fell  both  spear  and  shield  ;  down  they  as  fast ;  " 

Note  the  prayerful  tone  imparted  to  the  2d  and  3d  Stanzas  of 
the  Introductory  Poem  to  Tennyson's  "  In  Memoriam,"  by  the 
monosyllabic  words  of  which,  with  one  exception,  they  are  entirely 
composed.  The  exception  is  the  word  '  madest,'  which  is  used 
three  times ;  and  even  this  word  is  monosyllabic  without  the 
inflection.  But  being  here  a  dissyllable,  and  being  also  the  key 
word  of  the  stanza,  it  is  isolated  into  prominence.  It  also  ends 
the  stanza,  and  this  fact  gives  it  additional  prominence  : 

"  Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade ; 
Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute ; 
Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust ; 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why ; 

He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 
And  thou  hast  made  him :  thou  art  just." 

The  same  prayerful  tone  could  not  have  been  secured  through 
Latin  dissyllabic  words.  In  the  two  stanzas  there  are  but  3  words, 
not  Anglo-Saxon  in  origin,  "orbs,"  "brute,"  "just"  —  3  words  out 
of6i. 

No  living  poet  has  woven  his  song  to  such  an  extent  as  Ten- 
nyson has  done,  out  of  the  Saxon  vocabulary.  "  In  Memoriam  " 


104  LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS. 

exhibits,  perhaps,  a  greater  percentage  of  Saxon  words  than  any 
other  poem  of  the  same  extent,  in  the  literature,  since  the  days 
of  Chaucer ;  and  this  is  largely  owing  to  the  genuine,  unaffected 
feeling  in  which  the  subtlest  conceptions  are  steeped.  The  i03d 
section,  beginning  "  On  that  last  night  before  we  went  From  out 
the  doors  where  I  was  bred,"  may  be  cited  as  an  example  of  per- 
fect poetic  diction,  simple,  and  almost  as  direct  and  free  from 
inversion  and  involution,  as  the  most  unadorned  and  straightfor- 
ward prose.  Of  the  381  words  which  it  contains,  342  are  Saxon, 
and  but  39  of  Latin,  Greek,  or  other  origin;  322  are  monosyllabic; 
the  nth  stanza  is  purely  monosyllabic  with  the  exception  of  the 
Latin  word,  "  silence.") 

King  Lear,  the  homliest  in  its  pathos,  of  all  the  Plays  of  Shake- 
speare, abounds  in  striking  examples  of  staccato  effect,  secured 
through  monosyllables  : 

"  Go  tell  the  duke  and's  wife  Fid  speak  with  them, 
Now,  presently :  bid  them  come  forth  and  hear  me, 
Or  at  their  chamber-door  I'll  beat  the  drum 
Till  it  cry  sleep  to  death."  — A.  II.  Sc.  iv.  112-115. 

"  If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old, 
Make  it  your  cause  ;  send  down,  and  take  my  part !  " 

"  O  sides,  you  are  too  tough  ; 
Will  you  yet  hold  ?    How  came  my  man  in  the  stocks  ? " 

—  A.  II.  Sc.  iv.  187-189;  194,  195. 

"  You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 
As  full  of  grief  as  age  ;  "  .  .  .     — A.  II.  Sc.  iv.  269,  270. 

"  I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both 
That  all  the  world  shall  —  I  will  do  such  things  — 
What  they  are,  yet  I  know  not,  but  they  shall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.     You  think  I'll  weep  ; 
No  ;  I'll  not  weep  :  .  .  .  . 

O  fool,  I  shall  go  mad  !  "  —  A.  II.  Sc.  iv.  274-280 ;  283. 

"  Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks  !  rage  !  blow  !  "  —  A.  III.  Sc.  ii.  I . 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  105 

"  My  wits  begin  to  turn. 
Come  on,  my  boy :  how  dost,  my  boy  ?  art  cold  ?  " 

"  Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart    . 
That's  sorry  yet  for  thee."  —  A.  III.  Sc.  ii.  66,  67  ;  72,  73. 

"  No,  I  will  weep  no  more.  In  such  a  night 
To  shut  me  out !  Pour  on  ;  I  will  endure. 
In  such  a  night  as  this  ! "  .  .  . 

"  Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave  you  all,  — 
O,  that  way  madness  lies ;  but  let  me  shun  that ; 
No  more  of  that."  —  A.  III.  Sc.  iv.  17-19;  20-22. 

"  Edg.   What  will  hap  more  to-night,  safe  'scape  the  king  ! 
Lurk,  Lurk."  —  A.  III.  Sc.  vi.  113,  114. 

"  Corn.  .  .  .  Upon  these  eyes  of  thine  I'll  set  my  foot. 

Clou.   He  that  will  think  to  live  till  he  be  old, 
Give  me  some  help  !"  —  A.  III.  Sc.  vii.  67-69. 

"  Alb.   You  are  not  worth  the  dust  which  the  rude  wind 
Blows  in  your  face."  — A.  IV.  Sc.  ii.  30,  31. 

"  Lear.  Ha  !  Goneril,  with  a  white  beard  !  They  flattered  me 
like  a  dog,  and  told  me  I  had  white  hairs  in  my  beard  ere  the 
black  ones  were  there.  To  say  '  ay '  and  '  no  '  to  every  thing  that 
I  said  !  *  Ay '  and  '  no '  too  was  no  good  divinity.  When  the 
rain  came  to  wet  me  once  and  the  wind  to  make  me  chatter ; 
when  the  thunder  would  not  peace  at  my  bidding ;  there  I  found 
'em,  there  I  smelt  'em  out.  Go  to,  they  are  not  men  o'  their 
words  :  they  told  me  I  was  every  thing ;  'tis  a  lie,  I  am  not  ague- 
proof." —  A.  IV.  Sc.  vi.  96-104. 

"  Lear.  O,  ho,  are  you  there  with  me  ?  No  eyes  in  your  head, 
nor  no  money  in  your  purse  ?  Your  eyes  are  in  a  heavy  case,  your 
purse  in  a  light :  yet  you  see  how  this  world  goes."  —  A.  IV.  Sc.  vi. 
143-146. 

"  Thou  know'st,  the  first  time  that  we  smell  the  air, 
We  wawl  and  cry.     I  will  preach  to  thee  :  mark. 


106  LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS. 

When  we  are  born,  we  cry  that  we  are  come 

To  this  great  stage  of  fools.     This's  a  good  block. 

It  were  a  delicate  stratagem,  to  shoe 

A  troop  of  horse  with  felt :  I'll  put't  in  proof; 

And  when  I  have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 

Then,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill!"  — A.  IV.  Sc.  vi.  178-186. 

"  Lear.   You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave  : 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss  ;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead." 

' '  Cor.    Sir,  do  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know.     When  did  you  die?" 

"  Cor.   Still,  still,  far  wide !"  —  A.  IV.  Sc.  vii.  45-50. 

"  Lear.   I  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands :  let's  see ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick."  —  A.  IV.  Sc.  vii.  54-56. 

"  Lear.   No,  no,  no,  no !     Come,  let's  away  to  prison : 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness  :  so  we'll  live, 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news  ;  and  we'll  talk  with  them  too, 
Who  loses  and  who  wins,  who's  in,  who's  out ; 
And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies  :  and  we'll  wear  out, 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon."  —  A.  V.  Sc.  iii.  8-19. 

"Wipe  thine  eyes; 

The  good-years  shall  devour  them,  flesh  and  fell, 
Ere  they  shall  make  us  weep  :  we'll  see  'em  starve  first. 
Come."  — A.  V.  Sc.  iii.  23-26. 

"Lear.   Howl,  howl,  howl,  howl!     O,  you  are  men  of  stones 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I'ld  use  them  so 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  IO? 

That  heaven's  vault  should  crack.     She's  gone  forever! 
I  know  when  one  is  dead  and  when  one  lives ; 
She's  dead  as  earth.     Lend  me  a  looking-glass ; 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 
Why,  then  she  lives."  — A.  V.  Sc.  iii.  258-264. 

"  Lear.   And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd  !    No,  no,  no  life ! 
Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  have  life, 
And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?    Thou'lt  come  no  more, 
Never,  never,  never,  never,  never ! 
Pray  you,  undo  this  button  :  thank  you,  sir. 
Do  you  see  this?     Look  on  her,  look,  her  lips, 
Look  there,  look  there !  "  {Dies. 

—  A.  V.  Sc.  iii.  306-312. 

No  other  than  a  monosyllabic  vocabulary,  and  that  vocabulary, 
too,  the  Saxon  vocabulary  of  every-day  life,  would  serve  so  effec- 
tually to  express  the  homely  pathos  involved  in  the  two  last 
speeches. 

Observe  the  effect  secured  by  the  monosyllabic  words,  in  the 
following  passage  from  King  John,  A.  III.  Sc.  iii.  They  serve 
to  convey  the  impression  of  a  close  confidence.  The  King  is 
speaking  to  Hubert  and  hesitates  to  declare  openly  his  wish  to 
have  the  little  prince  Arthur  put  out  of  the  way.  To  the  speech 
of  Hubert,  "I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty,"  the  King 
replies : 

"  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say  so  yet, 
But  thou  shalt  have  ;  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow, 
Yet  it  shall  come  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say,  but  let  it  go." 

The  entire  speech,  of  which  these  are  the  opening  lines,  is  a 
wonder  of  metrical  movement.  The  sense  is  kept  suspended 
through  twenty-one  verses,  though  the  mind  and  ear  are  promised 
here  and  there,  a  descent  which  is  nevertheless  withheld,  till  we 
come  to  the  lines,  "  I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts  : 
But,  ah,  I  will  not !  yet  I  love  thee  well ;  And,  by  my  troth,  I  think 
thou  lov'st  me  well." 


108  LATIN  AND   ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS. 

Observe  how  the  abruptness  of  strong  feeling  is  subserved  by 
the  monosyllabic  words  in  the  following  passage  from  the  same 
play,  A.  IV.  Sc.  iii.  Salisbury  says  to  the  Bastard, 

"  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Faulconbridge." 
The  Bastard  replies  in  great  anger, 

"  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury : 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me  or  stir  thy  foot, 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I'll  strike  thee  dead.     Put  up  thy  sword  betime ; 
Or  I'll  so  maul  you  and  your  toasting-iron, 
That  you  shall  think  the  devil  is  come  from  hell." 

And  a  little  further  on,  inx  the  same  Scene,  when  the  Bastard  ex- 
presses to  Hubert  his  suspicions  that  he  (Hubert)  has  killed  the 
young  Prince,  note  the  staccato  effect  of  the  monosyllabic  words 
of  which  some  of  the  clauses  are  entirely  composed. 

The  Bastard  says : 

"  Here's  a  good  world  !     Knew  you  of  this  fair  work? 
Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert." 

The  effect  of  the  staccato  movement  of  the  clause,  "if  thou 
didst  this  deed  of  death,"  is  enforced  by  the  lengthened  move- 
ment of  what  immediately  precedes  : 

"  Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach  of  mercy, 
If  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.   Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Bast.   Ha !  I'll  tell  thee  what ; 

ThouYt  damn'd  as  black,  —  nay,  nothing  is  so  black ; 
Thou  art  more  deep  damn'd  than  Prince  Lucifer : 
There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 
As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child." 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  109 

Note  the  effect  of  the  monosyllabic  words,  in  the  oft-repeated 
"  I'll  have  my  bond,"  in  Shylock's  speech  to  Antonio  (Merchant 
of  Venice,  A.  III.  Sc.  iii.)  ;  they  suggest,  as  Charles  and  Mary 
Cowden  Clarke  say,  in  their  "  Shakespeare  Key,"  the  bark  of  the 
'  dog '  he  taunts  Antonio  with  having  called  him  : 

"  I"1  II  have  my  bond ;  speak  not  against  my  bond  : 
I  have  sworn  an  oath  that  /  will  have  my  bond. 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog  before  thou  hadst  a  cause  ; 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs.  .  .  . 

Antonio.    I  pray  thee  hear  me  speak. 

Shy  lock.   Ptt  have  my  bond]  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak: 
m  have  my  bond;  and  therefore  speak  no  more.  .  .  . 
I'll  have  no  speaking :  /  will  have  my  bond." 

In  the  following  speech  of  Constance  (King  John,  A.  III.  Sc. 
iv.),  the  iteration  of  the  monosyllabic  words, "  I  am  not  mad,"  and 
the  additional  monosyllabic  vocabulary,  subserve  well  the  expres- 
sion of  her  passionate  grief : 

"  Pand.    Lady,  you  utter  madness,  and  not  sorrow. 

Const.   Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 
I  am  not  mad.     This  hair  I  tear  is  mine ; 
My  name  is  Constance  ;  I  was  Geffrey's  wife ; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost : 
I  am  not  mad,  —  I  would  to  heaven,  I  were ! 
For  then,  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget !  — 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canonized,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad,  but  sensible  of  grief, 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 
How  I  may  be  delivered  of  these  woes, 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself: 
If  I  were  mad,  I  should  forget  my  son ; 
Or  madly  think  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he. 
I  am  not  mad,  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 


110  LATIN  AND   ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS. 

It  will  also  be  found  that  the  more  violent  feelings  of  anger,  hate, 
detestation,  scorn,  etc.,  in  addition  to  their  attracting  to  themselves 
the  monosyllabic  words  of  the  language,  express  themselves  on 
the  abrupt  vowels  of  words ;  while  the  gentler  feelings  of  love  or 
admiration  or  of  the  beautiful,  express  themselves  on  the  prolong- 
able  vowels. 

Examples  of  special  effect  secured  by  emphasis  on  abrupt 
vowels,  abound  throughout  the  Tragedies  and  Histories.  Take  for 
example  the  following  speeches  of  Gloster,  in  Richard  III.  A.  I. 
Sc.  iii.  103  et  seq.,  in  which  he  replies  to  Elizabeth,  queen  to 
Edward  IV.,  and  to  Queen  Margaret,  widow  of  Henry  VI. : 

"  Queen  Eliz.   My  Lord  of  Gloster,  I  have  too  long  borne 
Your  blunt  upbraidings  and  your  bitter  scoffs ; 
By  heaven  I  will  acquaint  his  majesty 
Of  those  gross  taunts  that  oft  I  have  endur'd.  .  .  . 

Enter  QUEEN  MARGARET,  behind^  where  she  remains. 

Small  joy  have  I  in  being  England's  queen. 

Queen  Marg.   And  lessen'd  be  that  small,  God,  I  beseech  him ! 
Thy  honor,  state,  and  seat  is  due  to  me. 

Gloster   (in  anger) .     Whdtt !  threat  you  me  with  t/lling  of  the  King  ? 
Tell  him,  and  spare  not :  100k,  what  I  have  said 
I  will  avouch  in  pr/s^nce  of  the  King  ;  .  .  . 

Queen  Marg.    Out,  devil !    I  remember  them  too  well. 
Thou  kiirdst  my  husband  Henry  in  the  Tower, 
And  Edward,  my  poor  son,  at  Tewksbury. 

Gloster.   Ere  you  were  queen,  ay,  or  your  husband  King, 
I  was  a  pack-horse  in  his  great  affairs  :  .  .  . 
To  royalize  h/s  blood  I  spent  mine  own. 

Queen  Marg.   Ay,  and  much  better  blood  than  his  or  thine. 

Gloster.   In  all  which  time,  you  and  your  husband  Grey, 
Were  factious  for  the  house  of  Lancaster  ;  — 
And,  Rivers,  so  were  you.  — Was  not  your  husband 
In  Margaret's  battle  at  Saint  Alban's  slain? 
Let  me  put  in  your  minds,  if  you  forget, 
What  you  have  been  ere  this,  and  what  you  are ; 
Withal,  what  I  have  been,  and  what  I  am." 


LATIN  AND  ANGLO-SAXON  ELEMENTS.  ill 

The  italicized  vowels  in  Gloster's  speeches  should  be  uttered 
with  a  strongly  percussive  force.  An  extra  effect  is  secured 
through  the  words  "  telling "  and  "  Tell,"  by  carrying  the  voice 
(after  uttering  the  abrupt  vowel,  e,  with  a  percussive  force)  through 
a  wide  upward  interval  on  /  in  "  telling,"  and  a  wide  downward  in- 
terval on  /  in  "  Tell "  —  the  latter  having  a  haughtily  defiant  effect. 
The  staccato  effect  secured  through  the  monosyllabic  words  in  the 
three  last  lines,  "  Let  me  put  in  your  minds,"  etc.,  subserves  well 
the  highly  wrought  feelings  of  the  speaker. 

Good  examples  occur  throughout  the  quarrel  scene  between 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  in  Julius  Caesar,  A.  IV.  Sc.  iii. 


112  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 


IN  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Shakespeare's  first  tragedy,  we  have  what 
has  been  well  called  the  lyric  melody  of  passion.    In  the  poet's 
growth,  this  lyric  melody  of  passion  is  gradually  developed  into 
what  Dowden  calls  'the  orchestral  symphony  of  emotion  which 
envelops  us  when  we  approach  King  Lear.' 

There  is  a  sentence  in  King  Lear  which  might  serve  as  a  motto 
to  the  Tragedy  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  The  King  of  France  says 
to  Burgundy,  after  Cordelia  has  been  cast  off  by  her  father : 

"  My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady?     Love's  not  love 
When  it  is  mingled  with  regards  that  stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point."  —  A.  I.  Sc.  i.  242. 

That  is,  Love's  not  love  when  it  is  mingled  with  considerations 
that  stand  aloof  from  the  main  point  of  affection.  True  love 
ignores  all  such  considerations.  Or  a  portion  of  the  n6th  Sonnet 
would  serve  as  an  appropriate  motto  : 

"  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  .  .  . 
...  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

******** 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  tho1  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom." 

In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  love  is  represented  as  entirely  divorced 
from  all  considerations  which  stand  aloof  from  the  entire  point  — • 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  113 

from  the  main  point  of  affection.  And  there  is  not  in  the  play 
any  vicarious  condemnation  of  such  divorcement ;  I  mean  by 
vicarious  condemnation,  that  which  is  uttered  by  a  character  in 
the  place  of  the  poet  himself.  There  is  a  moderation  enjoined 
upon  Romeo  by  Friar  Laurence ;  but  all  that  he  says  is  said  in 
propria  persona,  and  not  vicariously.  Love  becomes  the  agency 
for  developing  a  pair  of  young  and  exquisitely  organized  human 
beings  into  heroic  manhood  and  heroic  womanhood.  And  tragic 
as  are,  or  may  be  regarded,  the  consequences  of  their  love,  their 
devotion  unto  death  not  only  completes  their  lives,  but  effects  a 
reconcilement  of  the  bitterly  hostile  houses  which  they  represent. 
As  the  Prologue  expresses  it,  their  "  misadventured  piteous  over- 
throws do  with  their  death  bury  their  parents'  strife,  which  but  \ 
their  children's  end  nought  could  remove." 

This,  Shakespeare's  first  tragedy,  it  is  all  important  to  regard 
from  the  right  standpoint,  as  it  can  be  taken  as  illustrative  of  the 
poet's  characteristic  mode  of  presenting  strong  passion,  —  a  mode 
which  may  best  be  called  Shakespearian.  In  Ben  Jonson's  Come- 
dies, his  characters  are  often  personifications  rather  than  personali- 
ties—  personifications  of  autocratic  moods  or  humors.  He  has 
been  called  a  dramatic  Dickens.  Again,  we  see  in  other  drama- 
tists, a  predetermination  to  elucidate  the  effects  of  some  mastering 
passion,  or  of  some  social  principle.  In  the  case  of  Shakespeare  | 
the  critic  is  likely  to  go  astray,  if  he  see  such  predeterminations ;  j 
is  likely  to  ascribe  an  undue  place,  in  his  creative  work,  to  the 
conscious  understanding,  and  to  moral  verdicts  on  the  part  of 
the  poet.  I  cannot  but  think  that  critics  have  gone  more  astray 
in  this  respect,  in  their  treatment  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  sim- 
ple as  is  the  melody  of  the  passion,  than  in  the  treatment  of 
almost  any  other  play.  They  have,  with  but  few  exceptions, 
attributed  to  Shakespeare  the  predetermination  in  this  play,  of  ex- 
hibiting the  bad,  the  fatal  consequences  of  violent,  unrestrained 
passion :  and  the  importance  of  moderation  —  of  observing  the 
golden  mean  between  too  much  and  too  little  ;  and  in  accordance 
with  this  view,  they  have  regarded  Friar  Laurence  as  the  poet's 


114  ROMEO  AND 

own  spokesman,  put  into  the  play  for  the  special  purpose  of  vica- 
riously giving  voice  to  the  moderate  and  the  prudential.  Such  a 
mode  of  proceeding  may  be  necessary  to  dramatists  of  an  inferior 
order,  whose  work  moves  under  the  condition  of  a  notion  of  some 
kind.  But  Shakespeare's  plays,  none  of  them,  move  under  such 
condition.  He  chose  the  subject  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  for  its 
passionate  capabilities ;  he  is  the  artistic  physiologist  of  human 
passions.  And  by  artistic  physiologist  I  mean,  that  he  treats  the 
passions  under  the  condition  of  the  moral  constitution  of  things, 
but  not  as  a  moralist. 

Shakespeare  is  always  especially  happy  in  the  opening  scenes  of 
his  Plays.  They  generally  strike  the  keynote  of  the  whole  dramatic 
action.  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  no  exception  to  this.  Furthermore, 
the  opening  scene  is,  of  itself,  a  sufficient  refutation  of  much  of  the 
commentary  on  the  play,  which  ascribes,  as  we  shall  see  further  on, 
the  misadventured  piteous  overthrows  of  the  two  lovers,  to  subject- 
ive causes  —  to  causes  existing  within  themselves  —  to  the  immod- , 
erateness,  the  rashness,  the  impetuosity,  of  their  loves,  rather  than 
to  objective  causes  —  to  the  ancient  grudge  between  the  "  two 
households,  both  alike  in  dignity,"  which,  in  the  words  of  the 
Prologue,  "break  to  new  mutiny,  where  civil  blood  makes  civil 
hands  unclean." 

If  the  misadventured  piteous  overthrows  of  the  two  lovers  were 
primarily  due  to  subjective  causes,  and  the  mutual  hatred  of  their 
families  were  only  a  secondary  cause,  the  poet  would  hardly  have 
opened  the  play  with  the  angry  contention  in  the  streets,  between 
the  servants  of  the  households,  which  has  to  be  suppressed  by  the 
Prince  of  Verona,  the  representative  of  the  state.  When  the  fight 
is  at  its  hottest,  — 

11  Enter  old  CAPULET,  in  his  gown ;  and  Lady  CAPULET. 

Cap.   What  rjoise  is  this?     Give  me  my  long  sword,  ho ! 
La.  Cap.   A  crutch,  a  crutch  !     Why  call  you  for  a  sword? 
Cap.    My  sword,  I  say !     Old  Montague  is  come, 
And  flourishes  his  blade  in  spite  of  me. 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  1 15 

Enter  old  MONTAGUE  and  Lady  MONTAGUE. 

Mon.   Thou  villain  Capulet !     Hold  me  not,  let  me  go. 
La.  Mon.   Thou  shalt  not  stir  one  foot  to  seek  a  foe. 

Enter  PRINCE,  with  his  train. 

Rebellious  subjects,  enemies  to  peace, 
Profaners  of  this  neighbour-stained  steel,  — 
Will  they  not  hear?  —  what,  ho  !  you  men,  you  beasts, 
That  quench  the  fire  of  your  pernicious  rage 
With  purple  fountains  issuing  from  your  veins, 
On  pain  of  torture,  from  those  bloody  hands 
Throw  your  mistemper1d  weapons  to  the  ground, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  your  moved  prince. 
Three  civil  brawls,  bred  of  an  airy  word, 
By  thee,  old  Capulet,  and  Montague, 
Have  thrice  disturb'd  the  quiet  of  our  streets, 
And  made  Verona's  ancient  citizens 
Cast  by  their  grave  beseeming  ornaments, 
To  wield  old  partisans,  in  hands  as  old, 
Canker'd  with  peace,  to  part  your  canker'd  hate  ; 
If  ever  you  disturb  our  streets  again, 
Your  lives  shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  the  peace. 
For  this  time,  all  the  rest  depart  away : 
You,  Capulet,  shall  go  along  with  me  ; 
And,  Montague,  come  you  this  afternoon, 
To  know  our  farther  pleasure  in  this  case, 
To  old  Free-town,  our  common  judgment  place. 
Once  more,  on  pain  of  death,  all  men  depart." 

If  the  commentary  on  the  play  is  correct,  which  ascribes  the 
sorrows  of  the  two  lovers  to  their  own  characters  (and  it  consti- 
tutes by  far  the  largest  portion  of  that  commentary),  then  this 
opening  scene  is  not  in  Shakespeare's  manner;  and  even  if  judged 
by  an  absolute  standard,  it  is  artistically  faulty  —  the  most  artisti- 
cally faulty  of  all  the  opening  scenes  of  his  Plays.  But,  as  I 
understand  the  play,  Shakespeare,  in  this  opening  scene,  strikes  the 
keynote  of  the  whole  dramatic  action  —  which  dramatic  action  is 
due  entirely  to  the  outward  circumstances  with  which  the  lovers 


Il6  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

are  to  be  brought  into  a  fatal  conflict  —  and  strikes  it  loudly; 
emphasizes  the  intensity  of  the  hatred  between  the  Capulets  and 
the  Montagues  —  a  hatred  which  interferes  with  public  peace  and 
public  security,  and  demands  the  interposition  of  the  highest 
authority  of  the  commonwealth. 

In  this  state  of  things,  the  two  lovers  are  placed,  the  one  a 
Montague  and  the  other  a  Capulet ;  and  their  mutual  love  is  of 
that  completely  absorbing  character  that  it  sets  at  defiance  all 
outward  considerations  and  obstacles  which  oppose  its  course  — 
a  course  of  true  love  which,  it  can  at  once  be  seen,  can«<?/  run 
smooth,  but  will  be  kept  in  violent,  boiling  agitation  until  it  ends 
in  the  repose  of  the  grave. 

This,  then,  is  the  dramatic  situation :  two  lovers,  whose  souls 
are  completely  absorbed  in  each  other,  are  brought  in  conflict  with 
a  hatred  which  has  existed  between  their  two  families  for  many 
generations,  and  which  time  has  not  softened,  but  rather  intensi- 
fied. For,  at  the  period  when  the  play  opens,  the  ancient  grudge 
of  the  "  two  households,  both  alike  in  dignity,"  is  dramatically  pre- 
sented to  us  as  broken  out  into  new  mutiny,  and  things  are  at 
their  worst. 

Romeo  is  first  presented  to  us  in  love  with  an  obdurate  fair, 
named  Rosaline,  who  will  give  no  ear  to  the  young  man's  suit ; 
and  the  next  important  points  to  be  considered  are,  the  character 
and  the  artistic  significance  of  this  first  love.  There  is  danger  of 
an  essential  misunderstanding  of  it  —  a  misunderstanding  which 
has  been  encouraged  by  some  of  the  leading  critics  of  the  play  — 
by  most  of  the  leading  critics  of  the  play,  and  which  Mrs.  Jame- 
son, in  her  "  Characteristics  of  Shakespeare's  Women,"  has  most 
strongly  set  forth.  She  calls  Romeo's  first  love  a  "  visionary  pas- 
sion"; represents  him  as  "the  thrall  of  a  dreaming,  fanciful 
passion,"  after  the  style  of  the  fantastic  school  of  gallantry. 

Romeo's  first  love  being  so  understood,  its  introduction  into 
the  play  is  wholly  superfluous  —  it  is  merely  an  intrusion,  an  ex- 
crescence ;  and  more  than  that :  Romeo,  in  being  first  introduced 
as  a  merely  conventional  lover,  with  a  visionary  passion,  after  the 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  1 1/ 

style  of  the  fantastic  school  of  gallantry,  would  be  too  much  low- 
ered in  our  estimation,  would  forfeit  too  much  our  respect  for 
him,  to  be,  afterwards,  with  Juliet,  the  representative  of  the  power 
and  the  triumph  ot  love,  which  it  is  certainly  the  purpose  of  the 
play  poetically  to  idealize. 

Ulrici,  in  his  "  Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Art,"  after  setting  forth 
his  view  of  the  destructive  excess  of  the  passion  of  the  lovers, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  after  representing  Romeo  as  carried  away, 
as  it  were,  by  some  malignant  and  irresistible  impulse,  adds  :  "  In 
order  to  throw  out  this  caprice  in  a  still  stronger  light,  Shakespeare 
introduces  him  to  us  in  a  dreamy  passion  for  Rosaline."  Which 
is  about  equivalent  to  saying  that  Shakespeare  does  his  extreme 
best  to  render  Romeo  unworthy  of  our  respect.  According  to 
Ulrici,  he  is  a  better  subject  for  comedy  than  for  a  deep  tragedy. 

Kreyzig,  in  his  "Vorlesungen  iiber  Shakespeare,"  says:  "We 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Romeo  at  the  critical  period  of  that  not 
dangerous  sickness  to  which  youth  is  liable."  He  calls  it  "that 
love  lying  in  the  eyes  of  early  and  just  blooming  manhood,  that 
humorsome,  whimsical  'love  in  idleness,'  that  first,  bewildered, 
stammering  interview  of  the  heart  with  the  scarcely  awakened 
nature.  Strangely  enough,"  he  says,  "objections  have  been 
made  to  this  'superfluous  complication,'  as  if  down  to  this  day, 
every  Romeo  had  not  to  sigh  for  some  full-blown  Junonian  Rosa- 
line, nay,  for  half  a  dozen  Rosalines,  more  or  less,  before  his 
eyes  open  upon  his  Juliet."  That's  true  enough.  But  this  fact 
doesn't  answer  the  objections  which,  strangely  enough,  he  says, 
have  been  made  to  this  superfluous  complication.  The  objection 
stills  holds  good  when  all  that  is  said  against  it  is,  that  it's  a 
common  thing  for  a  young  man  to  have  an  early  love  before  he 
finds  his  Juliet.  Well,  it's  a  common  thing  for  a  child  to  have 
the  measles,  or  the  mumps ;  but  an  artist  would  not  introduce  a 
child  into  a  play  and  represent  it  as  having  the  measles,  or  the 
mumps,  unless  he  had  some  artistic  purpose  in  so  doing.  Let  us 
look  for  the  "  proof  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement " 
which  are  everywhere  found  in  Shakespeare. 


t 


Il8  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

Shakespeare  never  adopts  anything  from  his  original  without 
making  it  organic  —  that  is,  an  element  of  the  action  of  his  drama. 
What  he  adopts  may  be  in  the  original  story  an  excrescence ;  but 
it  becomes  in  the  play  a  part  of  its  organic  vitality.  This  is  as 
true  of  Romeo's  first  love  as  of  any  adoption  in  any  of  the  Plays. 
He  found  it  in  the  old  story,  but  he  did  not  retain  it  merely 
because  it  was  there.  That  can  be  said  with  perfect  assurance. 
If  it  had  not  suited  his  purpose,  he  could  easily,  and  would,  have 
eliminated  it.  His  power  of  rejecting  was  as  great  as  his  power 
of  appropriating.  He  did  both  with  equal  judgment  and  skill. 
And  he  was  quick  to  detect  the  dramatic  capability  of  this  first 
love  when  he  met  with  it  in  the  old  story. 

We  find,  on  referring  to  the  original  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
namely,  the  old  English  poem,  by  Arthur  Brooke,  entitled  "  The 
Tragicall  Historye  of  Romeus  and  luliet,"  published  in  1562,  that 
Shakespeare  has  modified,  in  two  important  particulars,  wriat 
Brooke  says  of  this  first  love ;  and  we  can  see  by  this  modifica- 
tion, his  dramatic  purpose.  [For  the  history  of  the  old  story,  its 
various  forms,  etc.,  see  Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel's  Introduction  to  his  edi- 
tion of  Romeus  and  luliet,  by  Arthur  Brooke,  and  "  Rhomeo  and 
lulietta,"  by  William  Painter,  published  by  the  New  Shakspere 
Society,  in  1875.  That  Brooke's  Poem  was  Shakespeare's  orig- 
inal, is  conclusively  shown  by  the  Editor.] 

In  Brooke's  poem,  Romeo,  after  repeated  failures  to  make  any 
impression  upon  the  heart  of  the  fair  maid  he  loves,  is  repre- 
sented as  thinking  to  leave  Verona  and  to  try  if  change  of  place 
might  change  away  his  ill-bestowed  love.  He  reflects  : 

"  Perhaps  mine  eye  once  banished  by  absence  from  her  sight, 
This  fire  of  mine,  that  by  her  pleasant  eyes  is  fed, 
Shall  little  and  little  wear  away,  and  quite  at  last  be  dead." 

vv.  86-88. 

Here  Romeo,  although  he  is  represented  as  loving  deeply,  has 
not  so  entirely  surrendered  his  individuality,  but  that  he  retains 
considerable  power  of  asserting  his  selfhood.  There's  a  portion 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  119 

of  himself,  a  pretty  big  portion,  we  must  suppose,  belonging  to 
himself.  The  absorption  of  his  individuality  in  one  of  the  oppo- 
site sex  is  not  complete.  Again,  when  his  friend  who,  in  the  play 
is  called  Benvolio  (he  is  nameless  in  the  poem,  as  is  also  the  ob- 
durate fair  one),  when  his  friend  advises  him  to  turn  his  eyes  in 
other  directions,  and  endeavor  to  seek  out  "  some  one  of  beauty, 
favor,  shape,  and  lovely  carriage,"  upon  whom  to  bestow  his 
heart,  and  thus  forget  his  present  love, 

"  The  young  man's  listening  ears  received  the  wholesome  sound, 
And  Reason's  truth  yplanted  so,  within  his  head  had  ground  ; 
That  now  with  healthy  cool  ytempered  is  the  heat, 
And  peacemeal  wears  away  the  grief,  that  erst  his  heart  did  fret ; " 

vv.  141-144. 

and  he  plights  to  his  friend  a  solemn  oath  that,  at  every  feast  by 
day,  and  banquet  by  night,  at  church,  at  games  in  open  street, 
and  everywhere  he  would  resort  where  ladies  were  accustomed  to 
assemble.  All  this  is  strong  and  conclusive  evidence  that,  as  a 
lover,  he  was  not  so  very  far  gone.  The  poem  then  goes  on  to 
relate  how  Romeo  went  to  a  banquet  given  by  the  Capulets,  and 
there  fell  in  love  with  Juliet,  just  as  in  the  play.  It  will  be  ob- 
served, in  the  first  place,  how  the  play  follows  the  poem  in  a 
general  way,  and  in  what  important  particulars  it  departs  from 
it ;  and  those  departures  bear  testimony  to  the  poet's  dramatic 
purpose. 

Romeo  in  the  play  presents  a  strong  contrast,  as  the  lover  of 
Rosaline,  to  the  Romeo  of  Brooke's  poem.  In  the  play  his  ab- 
sorption is  so  complete  that  he  has  no  power  to  assert,  in  the 
least,  his  selfhood,  as  he  does  in  the  poem.  The  gentleness  of 
his  nature,  the  dramatist  has  also  emphasized.  He  is  presented 
in  strong  contrast  with  the  fiery  Tybalt,  and  with  the  general  dis- 
cordant spirit  around  him.  Tieck  says,  "  in  good  fortune,  as  in 
bad,  he  is  violent  and  rough."  But  he  says  this  in  the  service  of 
his  theory.  The  play  certainly  does  not  so  represent  him. 

Romeo's  first  love  is  represented  in  A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  123-244.     In 


I2O  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

the  speeches  of  Benvolio  and  old  Montague,  we  have  evidence 
only  of  a  genuine,  all-absorbing  passion,  not  a  fanciful  one.  His 
love  has  been  a  thing  too  sacred  to  allow  him  even  to  speak  of 
the  object  of  it,  to  his  parents  and  closest  friends.  His  father 
neither  knows,  nor  can  learn  of  him,  the  secret  of  his  grief.  The 
advice  of  his  friend,  Benvolio,  to  give  liberty  to  his  eyes,  and  to 
examine  other  beauties,  calls  forth  a  response  quite  different  from 
that  in  the  poem  to  the  same  kind  of  advice.  In  the  poem  we 
read : 

"  To  his  approved  friend,  a  solemn  oath  he  plight, 
At  every  feast  ykept  by  day,  and  banquet  made  by  night, 
At  pardons  in  the  church,  at  games  in  open  street, 
And  everywhere  he  would  resort  where  ladies  wont  to  meet." 

vv.  145-148. 

Romeo's  response  in  the  play  to  his  friend's  advice  (A.  I.  Sc.  i. 
231-244),  is  quite  of  another  tune  : 

"  Ben.    Be  rul'd  by  me,  forget  to  think  of  her. 

Rom.   O  teach  me  how  I  should  forget  to  think. 

Ben.   By  giving  liberty  unto  thine  eyes  ; 
Examine  other  beauties. 

Rom.  'Tis  the  way 

To  call  hers,  exquisite,  in  question  more  : 
These  happy  masks,  that  kiss  fair  ladies  brows, 
Being  black,  put  us  in  mind  they  hide  the  fair : 
He  that  is  strucken  blind,  cannot  forget 
The  precious  treasure  of  his  eyesight  lost : 
Show  me  a  mistress  that  is  passing  fair, 
What  doth  her  beauty  serve,  but  as  a  note 
Where  I  may  read  who  pass'd  that  passing  fair? 
Farewell :  thou  canst  not  teach  me  to  forget. 

Ben.    I'll  pay  that  doctrine,  or  else  die  in  debt." 

In  the  poem,  the  nameless  object  of  Romeo's  first  love  does 
not  appear  at  the  banquet  of  the  Capulets  :  and  Romeo  goes  to  it 
to  seek  out  a  new  beauty.  In  the  play,  Rosaline  is  included  in 
Capulet's  invitation,  and  called  "  my  fair  niece  Rosaline  "  ;  and  it 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  121 

is  entirely  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her  that  Romeo,  having  read  for 
the  servant  the  names  of  those  invited,  decides  to  go  to  the  enter- 
tainment, though  it's  a  perilous  thing  to  do,  to  go  uninvited  to  the 
house  of  his  mortal  enemy. 

Romeo,  be  it  understood,  is  presented  to  us  in  the  play,  as  a 
representative  of  a  most  refined  and  exalted  sexual  love  —  a  love 
which  finally  develops  him  into  full  manhood.  And  his  constitu- 
tional fitness  for  such  a  love  is  first  shown  us  through  his  unre- 
quited love  for  Rosaline.  And  when  he  is  first  presented  to  us, 
he  is  suffering  "  the  pangs  of  disprized  love."  Byron  says  "  Man's 
love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart,  Tis  woman's  whole  existence." 
But  this  characterization  of  man's  love  will  not  suit  Romeo's ;  for 
he  has  been  raised  up  especially  by  the  poet  to  exhibit  sexual 
love  in  its  most  refined,  exalted,  and  exalting  form.  If  his  first  love 
had  been  even  partially  requited ;  if  the  object  of  that  first  love 
had  been  incapable,  suppose,  of  fully  requiting  his  love,  but  had 
requited  it  to  the  extent  of  her  power  of  loving,  he  would  not 
have  been  justified  in  transferring  it,  even  if  he  had  transferred  it 
upon  one  capable  of  fully  requiting  it.  But  it  was  wholly  unre- 
quited. This  the  poet  has  emphasized ;  and  thus  unmistakingly 
indicated  that  the  soul  of  Romeo  is  free  to  accept  a  response  from 
another  soul,  when  that  response  comes.  And  it  can  be  trtie  to 
itself  only  by  so  doing.  It  is  evident,  too,  that  the  poet's  purpose 
is  that  Romeo's  soul  shall  be  brought  just  to  that  temper  which 
renders  its  response  to  a  kindred  soul,  spontaneous  and  imme- 
diate. When  he  meets  with  Juliet,  his  love  is  something  other 
than  what  is  generally  signified  by  love  at  first  sight.  It  is  of  a 
more  spiritual  character.  And  that  more  spiritual  character  is 
largely  due,  we  must  suppose,  to  his  previous  subjective  state, 
induced  by  his  unrequited  love. 

The  next  feature  of  the  play  which  it  is  important  to  note,  is 
Juliet's  situation  and  surroundings,  before  she  meets  with  Romeo. 

The  3d  Scene  of  the  ist  Act  indicates,  was  meant  to  indicate, 
the  imperfect  sympathy,  or  rather  /^-sympathy,  which  her  two 
closest  companions,  almost  her  only  companions,  her  mother  and 


122  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

her  nurse,  had  with  the  young  girl's  most  secret  being;  which 
secret  being  when  it  is  revealed  by  her  love  for  Romeo,  must,  we 
are  assured,  before  that  love  was  awakened,  have  had  a  strong 
consciousness  of  this  imperfect  or  «<?-sympathy,  on  the  part  of  the 
mother  and  nurse,  and  of  all  around  her,  and  must  have  been 
ready  for  an  immediate  and  full  response  to  the  first  kindred  and 
sympathetic  soul  she  should  meet  with.  In  the  preceding  scene, 
to  the  inquiry  of  the  County  Paris,  "  But  now,  my  lord,  what  say 
you  to  my  suit?  "  Capulet  replies,  "  My  child  is  yet  a  stranger  in 
the  world  ;  she  hath  not  seen  the  change  of  fourteen  years."  This 
indicates  the  seclusion  in  which  she  had  been  kept  up  to  this  time. 
But  it  does  not  necessarily  indicate  that  her  soul  has  been  without 
cravings  for  sympathy  such  as  those  around  her  were  incapable  of 
affording.  In  the  3d  Scene,  Lady  Capulet's  idea  of  marriage  is 
revealed  to  us,  as  is  also  that  of  the  gross-minded  nurse.  Mar- 
riage is  to  both  a  mere  arrangement,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  souls  of  those  entering  into  this  arrangement.  Lady  Capulet 
says,  "  Tell  me,  daughter  Juliet,  how  stands  your  disposition  to  be 
married?"  She  knows  her  daughter's  heart  has  not  gone  out 
toward  any  one  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  It  is  about  time,  she  thinks, 
she  were  married.  "  Younger  than  you,"  she  continues,  "  here  in 
Verona,  ladies  of  esteem,  are  made  already  mothers  :  by  my  count, 
I  was  your  mother  much  upon  these  years,  that  you  are  now  a 
maid.  Thus  then,  in  brief :  The  valiant  Paris  seeks  you  for  his 
love."  The  nurse  interposes,  "  A  man,  young  lady  !  lady,  such  a 
man,  as  all  the  world  —  why,  he's  a  man  of  wax." 

Lady  Capulet,  as  is  evident  from  a  following  speech,  expects 
her  daughter  to  give  an  immediate  answer  in  regard  to  her  mar- 
rying a  man  whom  she  has  never  seen  :  "  What  say  you  ?  can  you 
love  the  gentleman?  "  And  then  after  expatiating  merely  upon  his 
personal  appearance,  she  says,  with  some  impatience  (Juliet,  as  we 
must  suppose,  not  having  shown  a  very  warm  interest  in  this  to  her 
unknown  fine  gentleman),  "speak  briefly,  can  you  like  of  Paris' 
love?"  Juliet,  who  hitherto  has  known  only  submission  to  the 
wishes  of  mother  and  nurse,  replies,  "  I'll  look  to  like,  if  looking 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

liking  move."  This  little  speech  sufficiently  indicates  that  whither 
her  heart  goes,  there  will  follow  her  hand,  and  not  elsewhere.  Of 
Juliet's  aptitude  for  a  deep  all-absorbing  love,  a  love  "  that  looks 
on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken,"  we  have  no  other  intimation, 
previous  to  her  meeting  with  Romeo.  But  any  stronger  intima- 
tion would  be  objectionable ;  and  the  poet  has  accordingly  given 
us  only  this  slight  hint,  that  Juliet  is  not  disposed  to  marriage  for 
its  own  sake,  and  that  to  her,  marriage  can  be  honorable  only  on 
a  true  ethical  basis. 

The  two  other  lines  which  she  utters  in  connection  with  the  line 
just  quoted,  it  is  important  to  note  : 

"  But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it  fly." 

They  indicate  the  point  from  which  to  estimate  Juliet's  transi- 
tion, through  the  \  developing,  strengthening,  exalting  power  of 
love,  from  mere  submissive  femineity  to  self-sustained,  self-assert- 
ing, heroic,  and  triumphant  womanhood. 

She  and  Romeo  meet  at  the  Capulet  masquerade,  and  such  is 
their  previous  preparedness  for  each  other,  that  "  a  single  word,  a 
single  look,  a  single  touch,  have  joined  two  hearts  in  a  moment 
and  forever." 

The  heart  of  each 

*'  Responds,  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings  ; 

And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
1  Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long ! '  " 

To  adapt  a  simile  in  Tennyson's  "  Princess,"  as  the  lily  folds  all 
her  sweetness  up,  and  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  so  Juliet 
folds  herself  and  slips  into  Romeo's  bosom,  and  is  lost  in  him. 

In  the  loss  of  themselves  in  each  other,  Romeo  and  Juliet  find 
themselves.  But  with  Romeo,  the  finding  of  self  in  the  loss  of 
self,  is  not  so  immediately  complete  as  it  is  with  Juliet.  And  it  is 
dramatically  just  that  Romeo  should  not  be  so  suddenly  freed 
from  self-consciousness  as  is  Juliet.  A  man  is  rarely  so  suddenly 


124  ROMEO  AND   JULIET.. 

freed  from  self-consciousness  in  love  as  is  a  woman.  We  have  this 
exhibited  in  the  garden  scene  which  follows  —  the  2d  Scene  of 
the  2d  act — the  most  nearly  flawless,  in  its  composition,  of  the 
entire  play.  It  should  be  noted  that  the  imagery  indulged  in, 
sometimes  passing  into  the  fanciful,  is  nearly  all  in  Romeo's 
speeches ;  such  for  example  as  : 

"  Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  intreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those  stars, 
As  daylight  doth  a  lamp ;  her  eyes  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 
That  birds  would  sing  and  think  it  were  not  night." 

Juliet  is  direct,  straightforward,  as  if  possessed  with  a  deep 
sense  of  what  she  has  entered  upon. 

Shakespeare  makes  the  progress  of  occurrences  which  follow 
the  marriage  much  more  rapid  than  in  the  original  poem,  where 
we  are  told, 

"  The  summer  of  their  blisse,  doth  last  a  month  or  twain ; 
But  winter's  blast  with  speedy  foot,  doth  bring  the  fall  again. 
Whom  glorious  fortune  erst  had  heave'd  to  the  skies, 
By  envious  fortune  overthrown,  on  earth  no\fr  groveling  lies. 
She  paid  their  former  grief  with  pleasure's  doubled  gain, 
But  now  for  pleasure's  usury,  tenfold  redoubleth  pain." 

w.  949-954- 

The  poem  then  goes  on  to  relate  a  new  outbreak,  in  the  general 
course  of  outbreaks,  of  bloody  hostilities,  "the  morrow  after 
Easter  day,"  Tybalt  being  chosen  as  the  leader  of  the  Capulets. 
Romeo,  walking  with  his  friends,  comes  upon  the  scene,  and 
endeavors  to  allay  the  strife, 

"  to  part  and  bar  the  blows 
As  well  of  those  that  were  his  friends,  as  of  his  deadly  foes." 

vv.  1005,  1006. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  125 

Tybalt,  without  provocation,  furiously  attacks  Romeo,  who  tells 
him  he  does  him  wrong,  as  his  purpose  is  only  to  part  the  fray, 
and  that  not  dread  but  other  weighty  cause  stays  his  hand  —  the 
weighty  cause  being  his  marriage  with  Tybalt's  cousin  Juliet,  a 
fact  which  Tybalt  does  not  know  of.  Tybalt  is  deaf  to  reason, 
and  forces  Romeo  to  defend  himself.  The  result  is  that 

"  Our  Romeus  thrust  him  thro'  the  throat,  and  so  is  Tybalt  slain." 

v.  1034. 

In  the  play,  there's  a  modification  of  what  is  given  in  the  poem 
in  the  conduct  and  construction  of  the  action,  —  a  modification 
which  it  is  important  to  note,  as  it  is  in  the  service  of  the  exhibi- - 
tion  of  Romeo's  character  —  his  gentleness  and  his  honorablenesS 
are  strongly  brought  out  by  the  modification.  Tybalt  is  the  evil 
genius  of  discord  set  over  against  Romeo,  the  loving  and  the 
beloved.  In  the  poem,  Tybalt  does  not,  as  in  the  play,  figure  at 
the  masquerade  :  he  is  not  even  alluded  to  as  being  there.  In 
the  poem,  a  month  or  twain  after  the  marriage  of  the  lovers,  which 
has  been  kept  a  secret,  he  attacks  Romeo  when  the  latter  attempts 
to  allay  the  strife,  simply  because  he  is  a  Montague,  not  from  any 
special  offence.  But  in  the  play,  Tybalt,  previous  to  his  fatal 
encounter  with  Romeo,  is  specially  enraged  against  him,  for  his 
bold  and,  as  he  regards  it,  insulting  intrusion  at  the  masquerade : 
hearing  there  Romeo's  voice,  he  says  : 

"  This,  by  his  voice,  should  be  a  Montague :  — 
Fetch  me  my  rapier,  boy :  —  What !  dares  the  slave 
Come  hither,  cover'd  with  an  antic  face, 
To  fleer  and  scorn  at  our  solemnity  ? 
Now,  by  the  stock  and  honour  of  my  kin, 
To  strike  him  dead  I  hold  it  not  a  sin. 

Cap.   Why,  how  now,  kinsman  ?  wherefore  storm  you  so  ? 

Tyb.   Uncle,  this  is  a  Montague,  our  foe  ; 
A  villain,  that  is  hither  come  in  spite, 
To  scorn  at  our  solemnity  this  night. 

Cap.   Young  Romeo,  isrt? 

Tyb.  'Tis  he,  that  villain  Romeo. 


126  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

Cap.  Content  thee,  gentle  coz,  let  him  alone, 
He  bears  him  like  a  portly  gentleman ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  Verona  brags  of  him 
To  be  a  virtuous  and  well-go vernM  youth  : 
I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  all  this  town, 
Here  in  my  house  do  him  disparagement : 
Therefore  be  patient,  take  no  note  of  him : 
It  is  my  will ;  the  which  if  thou  respect, 
Show  a  fair  presence,  and  put  off  these  frowns, 
An  ill-beseeming  semblance  for  a  feast. 

Tyb.    It  fits,  when  such  a  villain  is  a  guest ; 
I'll  not  endure  him. 

Cap.  He  shall  be  endued. 

What,  goodman  boy  !     I  say,  he  shall :     Go  to  ; 
Am  I  the  master  here,  or  you?  go  to. 
You'll  not  endure  him  !     God  shall  mend  my  soul  — 
You'll  make  a  mutiny  among  my  guests  ! 
You  will  set  cock-a-hoop !  you'll  be  the  man ! 

Tyb.   Why,  uncle,  'tis  a  shame. 

Cap.  Go  to,  go  to ; 

You  are  a  saucy  boy :  —  Is't  so  indeed  ? 
This  trick  may  chance  to  scathe  you  —  I  know  what. 
You  must  contrary  me  !  —  marry,  'tis  time  — 
Well  said,  my  hearts  !  —  You  are  a  princox ;  go 
Be  quiet,  or  —  More  light,  more  light !  for  shame  ! 
I'll  make  you  quiet ;  What !  —  Cheerly,  my  hearts  ! 

Tyb.    Patience  perforce  with  wilful  choler  meeting 
Makes  my  flesh  tremble  in  their  different  greeting. 
I  will  withdraw  :  but  this  intrusion  shall, 
Now  seeming  sweet,  convert  to  bitter  gall."  [Exit. 

In  the  play,  the  heat  of  the  day  on  which  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  married  is  not  yet  over,  when  Tybalt,  brooding  upon  the  in- 
sult conceived  the  previous  night  at  the  ball,  meets  with  Romeo's 
friends,  Mercutio  and  Benvolio  (A.  III.  Sc.  i.  40).  The  personal 
encounter  which  soon  follows  takes  the  place  of  the  general  fray 
we  have  in  the  poem,  a  month  or  twain  after  the  marriage.  In 
comparing  the  play  with  the  poem,  we  are  helped  to  see,  but  it 
is  plain  to  see  without  such  outside  help,  at  what  special  pains, 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  I2/ 

pains  which  have  gone  for  nothing  with  some  commentators,  the 
poet  was,  to  exhibit  the  sweetly-  gentle  character  of  Romeo  (and 
he  has  a  true  manly  valor,  withal;  he's  no  coward),  and  perfectly 
to  justify  his  slaying  of  Tybalt.  There's  not  the  slightest  rashness 
in  the  act.  What  he  does  he  does  when  forbearance  ceases  to  be 
a  virtue.  Tieck  says,  without  any  authority  whatever  from  the 
play,  that  "  in  good  fortune  as  in  bad,  he  is  violent  and  rough." 
But  as  Skottowe  has  noted,  it  not  appearing  enough  to  the  drama- 
tist, that  Tybalt,  as  in  the  poem,  should  be  the  unprovoked  aggres- 
sor, or  that  Romeo's  self-command  should  only  be  overcome  by 
repeated  insults,  he  adds  the  aggravation  of  Mercutio's  murder  — 
a  murder  due,  also,  to  Romeo's  coming  between  them,  with  the 
good  intention  of  parting  them.  Romeo  has  patiently  endured 
Tybalt's  treatment  of  himself,  by  reason  of  his  marriage  with  Juliet, 
his  love  for  her  being  reflected  upon  her  kinsman ;  but  when  his 
friend  Mercutio  is  slain  in  his  behalf,  and  the  furious  Tybalt  comes 
back  again,  he  exclaims  :  "  Alive  !  in  triumph  !  and  Mercutio 
slain  !  Away  to  heaven,  respective  lenity  "  (that  is,  the  lenity  he 
has  thus  far  shown*  out  of  regard  to  his  relationship  to  Tybalt,  by 
his  marriage  with  Juliet),  "  and  fire-eyed  fury  be  my  conduct  now  " 
(that  is,  conductor  or  guide)  !  "  Now,  Tybalt,  take  the  villain  back 
again,  that  late  thou  gavest  me." 

Under  the  circumstances,  the  poet  could  not  have  preserved  to 
us  the  requisite  respect  for  Romeo,  in  any  other  way.  He  also 
emphasizes  Romeo's  gentle  forbearance  and  honorable  conduct, 
through  what  Benvolio  is  made  to  relate  of  the  affair  to  the 
Prince  (A.  III.  Sc.  i.  157-180).  The  point  to  be  especially 
noted  is,  that  the  cause  of  what  proves  such  a  misfortune  to 
Romeo  lies  outside  of  himself,  and  is  not  at  all  attributable,  as 
most  commentators  attribute  it,  to  Romeo's  own  character.  He 
and  Juliet  are  "  star-crossed  lovers."  That's  the  important  thing 
to  note.  And  if  it  is  not  sufficiently  noted,  if  the  lovers,  in  them- 
selves considered,  are  regarded  as  responsible  for  their  misfortunes, 
an  entirely  false  understanding  of  the  play  must  be  the  result. 
The  poet's  dramatic  purpose  demanded  that  Romeo's  character 


128  ROMEO  AND  JULIET, 

should  be,  throughout,  such  as  not  in  the  least  to  damage  that 
purpose,  which,  I  repeat,  is,  to  exhibit  the  moral  energy  induced 
by  an  all-absorbing  love  in  conflict  with  the  most  adverse  circum- 
stances. All  the  calamities  to  which  that  love  is  subjected  are 
represented  as  due,  exclusively  due,  to  objective,  outside  causes. 

Before  the  sad  sentence  of  banishment  imposed  upon  Romeo 
by  the  Prince  is  known  to  her,  comes  Juliet's  lovely  Epithalamium 
(A.  III.  Sc.  ii.),  the  fullest  signification  of  which  depends  on  a 
proper  understanding  of  "  runaway's  eyes,"  in  the  6th  line  : 

"  Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  night, 
That  runaway's  eyes  may  wink,  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of  and  unseen." 

No  crux  criticorum  in  all  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  has  occa- 
sioned such  an  amount  of  commentary  as  has  this.  But  I  think  it 
should  be  considered  as  put  forever  at  rest,  by  the  explanation  of 
N.  J.  Halpin,  as  given  in  the  2d  volume  of  "  The  (old)  Shakespeare 
Society's  Papers,"  1845.  He  has  shown  with  entire  conclusiveness 
from  ancient  mythology,  and  from  contemporary  epithalamic  and 
other  erotic  poems,  that  "runaway"  means  Cupid  :  who,  in  refer- 
ence to  his  runaway  propensity,  was  called  by  the  Greeks  S/aaTrer^s 
SpaTreTtSas,  of  which  the  English  runaway  is  an  exact  translation, 
and  by  the  Latins,  fugitivus,  profugus,  vagus  ;  and  by  the  English, 
truant,  deserter,  wanderer,  vagrant,  vagabond,  runagate. 

"Assuming  this  interpretation  established,"  says  Halpin,  "we 
arrive  at  the  full  hymeneal  meaning  of  the  passage;  which, 
stripped  of  its  conventional  diction,  appears  to  be  this  :  Secrecy 
is  essential  to  our  safety.  Let  the  day,  therefore,  depart,  and  let 
Night  spread  her  curtain  around,  and  let  not  Cupid  discharge  his 
ministry  of  lighting-up  the  bride- chamber.  If  (as  painted  by 
some)  he  have  eyes,  let  them  wink  —  i.e.,  be  darkened ;  for  we 
have  need  of  darkness,  that  the  interview,  being  invisible,  may  be 
untalked-of :  and  we  have  no  need  of  light,  because  lovers  can 
see  by  their  own  beauties.  If,  however  (as  depicted  by  others), 
he  be  blind,  it  is  all  as  it  should  be  :  his  blindness  agrees  with 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  12$ 

that  darkness,  for  the  sake  of  which  the  presence  of  night  is  so 
desirable. 

"  The  passage,  .  .  .  should  be  printed  and  pointed  thus : 

"  '  Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  Night ! 
That  Run-a way's  eyes  may  wink,  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms  untalked-of  and  unseen. 
Lovers  can  see  to  do  their  amorous  rites 
By  their  own  beauties :  or,  if  Love  be  blind  — 
It  best  agrees  with  Night.' 

"  And  now  it  may  be  asked,  how  comes  Juliet  so  conversant  with 
the  topics  and  diction  of  this  class  of  poetry :  and  why,  on  this 
occasion,  does  she  pour  out  her  heart  in  its  language  ? 

"  In  answer  to  the  first  we  may  observe,  that  the  nuptial  pageant 
had,  at  that  time,  become  common  and  popular  in  England.  Our 
scene,  it  is  true,  lies  in  Italy ;  but  it  matters  little  whether  the 
Italians  observed  the  same  custom  or  not ;  for  Shakespeare  gives 
to  every  country  the  manners  of  his  own ;  and,  on  this  cosmopol- 
itan principle,  he  has  (in  common  with  some  of  his  dramatic 
contemporaries)  given  proof  of  the  habitual  occurrence  of  such 
festivities  in  his  time,  by  celebrating  with  the  nuptial  mask  the 
marriage  of  some  of  his  heroines. 

"  From  the  prevalence  of  the  practice,  then,  it  is  to  be  assumed 
that  Juliet  had  witnessed  the  bridal  ceremonies  of  many  of  her 
young  companions,  and,  like  other  noble  persons  of  the  day,  '  ex- 
pressed a  most  real  affection '  to  the  parties  by  taking  a  character 
in  the  mask.  Thus  might  she  have  caught  up  the  topics  and 
language  appropriated  to  this  species  of  poetry :  and  hence  may 
be  inferred  her  familiarity  with  thoughts  and  expressions  not  likely, 
in  any  other  way,  to  have  obtained  entrance  into  the  mind  of  an 
innocent  and  unsophisticated  girl  of  fourteen  years  of  age. 

"  And  why  (in  the  second  place)  does  she  harp  upon  this  string 
on  the  present  occasion? 

"  Alas,  poor  Juliet !  who  is  there  that,  in  the  concomitant  cir- 
cumstances, does  not  see  the  reason  ?  It  is  her  bridal  day ;  but, 
a  bridal  without  its  triumphs.  .  .  . 


130  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

"  Her  marriage  is  clandestine.  She  can  have  no  hymeneal  mask. 
No  troops  of  friends  led  her  to  the  church,  nor  followed  her  to  the 
banquet.  No  father  —  no  mother  —  gave  away  her  hand.  No 
minstrel  sung  her  nuptial  hymn ;  and  the  hour  that  should  con- 
duct her  all  glorious  to  the  bride-chamber  finds  her  alone,  un- 
friended, without  countenance,  without  sympathy.  Is  it  any 
wonder,  then,  that  the  absence  of  those  festive  rites,  which,  under 
happier  auspices,  would  have  given  splendour  to  her  nuptials, 
should  recall  them  to  her  imagination,  and  —  with  the  vision  — 
bring  vividly  to  her  memory  the  sentiments  appropriated  to  such 
occasions,  and  the  very  turn  of  expression  which  they  had  habitu- 
ally acquired  ?  Nay,  is  it  not  of  the  very  essence  of  our  nature, 
that,  pacing  that  solitary  chamber,  while  the  twilight  was  thicken- 
ing into  darkness,  and  the  growing  silence  left  the  throbbings  of 
her  heart  audible,  she  should  brood  over  the  impassioned  imagery 
of  the  Bridal  Song,  and  give  it  a  half  unconscious  utterance? 
Poor  Juliet !  She  had  nobody  to  sing  this  song  for  her.  It  bursts 
spontaneously  from  her  own  lips. 

"  I  cannot  but  think  that  this  view  invests  the  passage  with  a 
melancholy  charm,  unsurpassed  in  its  pathos  by  any  situation  in 
the  whole  range  of  the  drama,  except,  perhaps,  that  of  Iphigenia 
at  the  sacrificial  altar.  It  is  scarcely  possible,  indeed,  that  it  can 
ever  again  awaken  emotions  so  intense  as  it  must  have  kindled  in 
the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  James ;  because  its  language  does  not 
call  up  in  our  minds  the  same  associations  as  in  the  minds  of  our 
ancestors.  The  Hymeneal  Mask  has  vanished  from  our  customs, 
and  its  idiom  has  become  a  dead  letter.  To  us  the  language  is 
not  a  suggestion,  but  a  study :  to  them  it  was  fraught  with  a  pecu- 
liar significance,  and  every  image  was  coupled  with  an  every-day 
reality.  The  very  opening  lines  —  so  essentially  epithalamic  — 
must  have  conjured  up,  to  an  auditory  in  whose  ears  the  phrase- 
ology was  as  'familiar  as  household  words,'  the  whole  'pride, 
pomp,  and  circumstance  '  of  honored  wedlock ;  and  they  would 
have  instinctively  imagined  the  magnificent  and  joyous  solemnities 
that  should  have  blessed  the  union  of  the  only  daughter  of  the 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  131 

rich  and  noble  Capulet  with  the  only  son  of  the  no  less  noble  and 
wealthy  Montague.  But  what  was  the  scene  before  their  eyes? 
Where  was  the  bridal  escort?  where  the  assembled  friends  of 
'  both  their  houses '  ?  where  the  crowd  of  gay  and  gallant  youths 
who  should  have  homaged  the  beauty  of  the  bride  —  and  where, 
oh,  where,  the  maidens  that  were  her  fellows  to  bear  her  company  ? 
Of  all  the  customary  pageant,  but  one  solitary  figure  —  the  figure 
of  the  bride  herself — is  to  be  seen.  All  is  solitude,  and  darkness, 
and  silence.  But  one  sound  breaks  the  unnatural  stillness  —  the 
voice  of  that  sweet,  lonely  girl,  who — like  the  young  bird  timidly 
practising,  in  the  unfrequented  shade,  the  remembered  song  of  its 
kindred  — '  sits  darkling '  in  her  sequestered  bower,  and  eases 
her  impassioned  heart  in  snatches  of  remembered  song,  which,  in 
her  mind,  too,  are  associated  with  her  situation. 

"And  what  a  song  it  is  !  —  sweet  as  the  nightingale's  that 


Nightly  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree 


and  ardent  as  when  in  Eden, 

"  *  the  amorous  bird  of  night 
Sung  Spousal ;  and  bid  haste  the  evening  Star 
On  his  hill-top  to  light  the  bridal  lamp  : ' 

but  it  is  sad  and  ominous  withal;  and,  to  the  auditor  familiar 
with  its  import,  as  portentous  and  melancholy  as  the  fatal  descant 
which,  in  poets'  ears,  preludes  the  departure  of  the  dying  swan." 

The  decree  of  banishment  (III.  i.  192-200),  the  epithalamic 
monologue  of  Juliet  (III.  ii.  1-31),  the  return  of  the  Nurse  with 
the  sad  news,  which  she  communicates  to  Juliet  in  a  torturing  man- 
ner (III.  ii.  36-143),  the  attempted  consolation  of  Romeo,  by  the 
Friar  (III.  iii.  1-80),  the  message  and  ring  from  his  love,  brought 
to  the  Friar's  cell  by  the  Nurse,  and  the  arrangement  for  the  meet- 
ing of  the  lovers  at  night  (III.  iii,  81-175),  the  fixing  of  the  day  by 
Capulet,  of  Juliet's  marriage  to  Paris  (III.  iv.),  Romeo's  departure 
for  Mantua  (III.  v.  1-59),  all  follow  in  rapid  succession,  without 
any  intervals,  from  the  slaying  of  Tybalt  in  the  afternoon  till  the 


132  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

early  dawn  of  the  next  day,  when  the  lovers  part,  uttering  the 
sweetly-sad  dialogue  poem,  in  which  they  question  whether  it  be 
the  nightingale  or  the  lark,  they  hear,  and  whether  the  light  which 
is  in  the  sky,  be  the  light  of  the  coming  day.  Their  hearts  are 
filled  with  dire  forebodings,  and  shrink  with  an  intuitive  anticipa- 
tion of  the  stroke  of  doom.  As  Romeo  descends,  Juliet  says  : 

"  Art  thou  gone  so?  my  lord,  my  love,  my  friend  ! 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  in  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days  : 
O,  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo  ! 

Rom.   Farewell !  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 

Jul.    O,  think'st  thou  we  shall  ever  meet  again? 

Rom.   I  doubt  it  not ;  and  all  these  woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Jul.   O  God !  I  have  an  all-divining  soul ; 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb : 
Either  my  eyesight  fails,  or  thou  look'st  pale. 

Rom.   And  trust  me,  love,  in  my  eye  so  do  you : 
Dry  sorrow  drinks  our  blood.     Adieu,  adieu !  " 

{Exit  ROMEO. 

The  pangs  of  separation  from  Romeo  which  Juliet  has  to  suffer, 
alone  and  without  sympathy  from  father,  mother,  or  nurse,  are 
followed  immediately  by  even  a  severer  trial,  but  a  trial  which 
nerves  her  soul  to  the  greatest  intensity,  and  gives  it  all  the  moral 
courage  demanded  by  the  trying  situation.  She  who  but  three 
days  before  was  the  submissive  girl,  with  all  her  capabilities  still 
quiescent,  saying  to  her  mother  when  the  subject  of  marriage  was 
first  broached  to  her, 

"  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye 
Than /<?#r  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it  fly," 

passes  with  one  bound,  as  it  were,  into  a  self-sustained,  heroic 
womanhood. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  133 

When  Lady  Capulet  tells  her  the  "joyful  tidings"  that  "early 
next  Thursday  morn,  the  gallant,  young,  and  noble  gentleman,  the 
County  Paris,  at  St.  Peter's  Church,  shall  happily  make  her  there 
a  joyful  bride,"  all  the  woman  and  all  the  wife  rise  within  her  and 
assert  themselves,  and  she  replies  : 

"  Now,  by  St.  Peter's  church,  and  Peter  too, 
He  shall  not  make  me  there  a  joyful  bride. 
I  wonder  at  this  haste ;  that  I  must  wed 
Ere  he  that  should  be  husband  comes  to  woo. 
I  pray  you  tell  my  lord  and  father,  madam, 
I  will  not  marry  yet ;  and,  when  I  do,  I  swear, 
It  shall  be  Romeo,  whom  you  know  I  hate, 
Rather  than  Paris.     These  are  news  indeed ! 

La.  Cap.   Here  comes  your  father ;  tell  him  so  yourself, 
And  see  how  he  will  take  it  at  your  hands." 

This  spiritually  desiccated  father,  who  is  incapable  of  any  sym- 
pathy with  the  young  girl's  feelings,  severs,  by  his  grossly  brutal 
treatment  of  her,  on  this  occasion,  the  last  ties  which  should  bind 
her  to  him,  as  a  daughter.  When  he  goes  out,  the  poor  girl  turns 
to  her  mother  for  sympathy,  but  she  proves  herself  equally  insen- 
sible and  heartless,  replying  merely  to  her  daughter's  passionate 
entreaty, 

"  Talk  not  to  me,  for  I'll  not  speak  a  word : 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  have  done  with  thee." 

To  the  old  nurse  she  then  appeals  for  comfort  and  counsel. 
But  what  comfort  and  counsel  can  come  from  such  a  mass  of 
earthiness  and  grossness,  to  one  who  has  been  lifted  above  all 
temporal  considerations?  'The  old  idiot  urges  that  Paris  is  "a 
lovely  gentleman  !  Romeo's  a  dishclout  to  him  :  "  etc. 

She  now  stands  alone,  and  she  has  the  inward  resources  to  do 
so,  and  "  stands  upright  as  the  palm-tree  in  a  realm  of  sand."  To 
the  nurse,  to  whom  she  has  made  a  last  appeal  for  sympathy,  with- 
out receiving  any,  she  calmly  says,  "  Go,  counsellor,  thou  and  my 
bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain.  —  I'll  to  the  friar,  to  know  his 


134  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

remedy;  if  all  else  fail,  myself  have  power  to  die."  To  the  dear 
old  sympathetic  friar  she  goes,  at  whose  cell,  before  she  can 
unburden  her  heart  to  him,  she  first  has  to  undergo  the  additional 
affliction  of  meeting  Paris.  But  she  proves  herself  quite  equal  to 
respond  to  what  are  to  her  empty  words  from  a  man  to  whom 
marriage  is  but  a  social  arrangement,  quite  distinct  from  "  the  love 
of  wedded  souls."  When  she  is  rid  of  him,  her  pent-up  feelings 
burst  out  upon  her  only  friend ;  but  above  these  feelings  towers 
the  will  to  do  whatever  desperate  thing  he  may  propose. 
To  the  Friar's  words  : 

"  Hold,  daughter ;  I  do  spy  a  kind  of  hope, 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desperate  which  we  would  prevent. 
If,  rather  than  to  marry  county  Paris, 
Thou  hast  the  strength  of  will  to  slay  thyself, 
Then  is  it  likely,  thou  wilt  undertake 
A  thing  like  death  to  chide  away  this  shame, 
That  cop'st  with  death  himself  to  'scape  from  it ; 
And,  if  thou  dar'st,  I'll  give  thee  remedy." 

She  replies  : 

"  O,  bid  me  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower ; 
Or  walk  in  thievish  ways ;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are ;  chain  me  with  roaring  bears ; 
Or  hide  me  nightly  in  the  charnel-house, 
O'er-cover'd  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling  bones, 
With  reeky  shanks,  and  yellow  chapless  skulls ; 
Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave, 
And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud ; 
Things  that,  to  hear  them  told,  have  made  me  tremble ; 
And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt, 
To  live  an  unstain'd  wife  to  my  sweet  love." 

The  Friar  then  proposes  a  desperate  remedy,  which  she  is  at 
once  ready  to  accept,  and  the  means  by  which  she  and  Romeo 
are  to  be  reunited  : 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  135 

"  Hold,  then  ;  go  home,  be  merry,  give  consent 

To  marry  Paris  :  Wednesday  is  to-morrow ; 
To-morrow  night  look  that  thou  lie  alone, 
Let  not  thy  nurse  lie  with  thee  in  thy  chamber : 
Take  thou  this  vial,  being  then  in  bed, 
And  this  distilled  liquor  drink  thou  off: 
When,  presently,  through  all  thy  veins  shall  run 
A  cold  and  drowsy  humour ;  for  no  pulse 
Shall  keep  his  native  progress,  but  surcease. 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  liv'st; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  paly  ashes  ;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall, 
Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life ; 
Each  part,  deprived  of  supple  government, 
Shall  stiif,  and  stark,  and  cold,  appear  like  death  : 
And  this  borrow'd  likeness  of  shrunk  death 
Thou  shalt  continue  two-and-forty  hours, 
And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep. 
Now  when  the  bridegroom  in  the  morning  comes 
To  rouse  thee  from  thy  bed,  there  art  thou  dead : 
Then  (as  the  manner  of  our  country  is,) 
In  thy  best  robes  uncovered  on  the  bier, 
Thou  shalt  be  borne  to  that  same  ancient  vault, 
Where  all  the  kindred  of  the  Capulets  lie. 
In  the  mean  time,  against  thou  shalt  awake, 
Shall  Romeo  by  my  letters  know  our  drift ; 
And  hither  shall  he  come ;  and  he  and  I 
Will  watch  thy  waking,  and  that  very  night 
Shall  Romeo  bear  thee  hence  to  Mantua. 
And  this  shall  free  thee  from  this  present  shame, 
If  no  inconstant  toy,  nor  womanish  fear 
Abate  thy  valour  in  the  acting  it. 

Jul.  Give  me,  give  me  !   O,  tell  not  me  of  fear. 

Fri.   Hold ;  get  you  gone,  be  strong  and  prosperous 
In  this  resolve :  I'll  send  a  friar  with  speed 
To  Mantua,  with  my  letters  to  thy  lord. 

Jul.    Love  give  me  strength  !  and  strength  shall  help  afford. 
Farewell,  dear  father !  " 


136  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

Returning  home,  she  makes  her  submission  to  her  father,  who 
is  overjoyed  at  her  supposed  obedience.  To  his  ugly  speech,  as 
she  enters, 

"  How  now,  my  headstrong !     Where  have  you  been  gadding?  " 
She  replies : 

"  Where  I  have  learn'd  me  to  repent  the  sin 
Of  disobedient  opposition 
To  you  and  your  behests,  and  am  enjoin'd 
By  holy  Laurence  to  fall  prostrate  here, 
To  beg  your  pardon  :  pardon,  I. beseech  you! 
Henceforward  I  am  ever  ruled  by  you." 

Under  the  trying  circumstances,  this  speech  is  not  to  be  con- 
demned as  deception  on  the  part  of  Juliet,  but  should  be  regarded 
as  in  obedience  to  a  higher  principle  than  truthfulness  to  a  parent 
who  would  wrong  the  soul  of  his  child. 

Capulet,  in  his  high  glee,  resolves  that  the  knot  shall  be  knit  up 
to-morrow  morning;  that's  Wednesday,  a  day  earlier  than  he 
before  settled  upon.  In  his  mind,  the  whole  city  is  much  bound 
to  the  reverend  holy  friar,  for  bringing  about  such  a  happy  result. 
He  can  hardly  contain  himself : 

"  Go,  nurse,  go  with  her  :  we'll  to  church  to-morrow. 

{Exeunt  JULIET  and  Nurse. 
La.  Cap.   We  shall  be  short  in  our  provision : 
'Tis  now  near  night. 

Cap.   Tush,  I  will  stir  about, 
And  all  things  shall  be  well,  I  warrant  thee,  wife : 
Go  thou  to  Juliet,  help  to  deck  up  her ; 
I'll  not  to  bed  to-night ;  let  me  alone  ; 
I'll  play  the  housewife  for  this  once.     What,  ho ! 
They  are  all  forth.     Well,  I  will  walk  myself 
To  County  Paris,  to  prepare  him  up 
Against  to-morrow.     My  heart  is  wondrous  light, 
Since  this  same  wayward  girl  is  so  reclaim'd." 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET,  137 

The  nurse  attends  Juliet  to  her  chamber.     Lady  Capulet  enters 
to  know  whether  her  help  is  needed.     Juliet  replies  : 

4 '  No,  madam  ;  we  have  cull'd  such  necessaries 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  state  to-morrow  : 
So  please  you,  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you, 
For  I  am  sure  you  have  your  hands  full  all 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 

La.  Cap.  Good-night: 

Get  thee  to  bed  and  rest,  for  thou  hast  need." 

[Exeunt  Lady  CAPULET  and  Nurse. 

Juliet  is  now  left  alone  with  her  own  soul,  and  the  soliloquy 
which  she  utters  bears  testimony  to  her  moral  energy : 

"  Jul.    Farewell !  —  God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again. 
I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life : 
I'll  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me. 
Nurse  !  —  What  should  she  do  here  ? 
My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  ac^.  alone.  — 
Come,  vial.  — 

What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all  ? 
Shall  I  be  married  to-morrow  morning  ? 
No,  no  ;  —  this  shall  forbid  it :  — lie  thou  there.  — 

\_Laying  down  a  dagger. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead, 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonour'd, 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo  ? 
I  fear  it  is :  and  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man. 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me  ?  there's  a  fearful  point ! 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault, 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes  in, 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 


138  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place,  — 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle, 
Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  pack'd  ; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 
Lies  fest'ring  in  his  shroud ;  where,  as  they  say, 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort ;  — 
Alack,  alack,  is  it  not  like,  that  I, 
So  early  waking,  —  what  with  loathsome  smells 
And  shrieks  like  mandrakes'  torn  out  of  the  earth, 
That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad ;  — 
O,  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught, 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints  ? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud  ? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone, 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  ? 
O,  look !  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point :  —  stay,  Tybalt,  stay !  — 
Romeo,  I  come !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee." 

[She  throws  herself  on  the  bed. 

Mrs.  Jameson  says,  in  concluding  her  long  article  on  Juliet, 
"with  all  her  immense  capacity  of  affection  and  imagination, 
there  is  a  deficiency  of  reflection  and  of  moral  energy  "  /  and  this 
characterization  is  reiterated  by  other  critics.  To  impute  a 
deficiency  of  moral  energy  to  this  Shakespearian  ideal  of  moral 
energy,  is  something  surprising.  Her  moral  energy  approaches 
the  sublime,  when  she  takes  the  sleeping  potion,  her  imagina- 
tion having  first  called  up  all  the  horrors  of  the  charnel-vault. 
But  her  moral  energy  is  equal  to  the  encountering  of  even 
these.  She  has,  indeed,  great  fear;  but  our  interest  is  in  her 
superiority  to  it.  Heroism  implies  fear.  And  the  poet  had  an 
artistic  purpose  in  making  her  call  up,  as  she  does,  these  horrors, 
namely,  to  emphasize  her  moral  energy,  to  bring  into  bold  relief 
her  will  power.  Some  critics  understand  that  she  takes  the  potion 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  139 

when  she  loses  herself  in  fright.  If  that  were  true,  the  whole  play 
would  be  ruined.  Where  could  the  dramatic  interest  come  from? 
If  Juliet  does  not  belong  to  herself  at  the  time  she  takes  the 
potion,  all  dramatic  interest  in  the  act  is  gone.  It  has  no  more 
dramatic  interest  than  has  the  leaping  of  a  maniac  from  a  third- 
story  window.  But  actresses  often  fail  to  bring  out  distinctly  the 
idea  of  the  superiority  of  Juliet's  will  power  and  moral  energy,  to 
her  dread  imaginings.  Some  leave  no  doubt  as  to  their  delirium, 
just  before  taking  the  potion. 

Lord  Lytton,  in  his  strongly  favorable  article  on  Miss  Anderson's 
Juliet,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  December,  1884,  after  pro- 
nouncing her  acting  of  a  portion  of  the  soliloquy  as  not  only 
excellent,  but  surprisingly  excellent,  remarks  :  "  As  the  soliloquy 
advances,  the  acting  degenerates.  She  rises,  rushes  about  the 
stage,  rants,  screams,  loses  all  dignity,  all  pathos,  becomes  theatri- 
cal, conventionally  tragic,  wholly  ineffective,  and  ruins  the  senti- 
ment of  the  scene  by  a  painful  relapse  under  the  tyranny  of  the 
worst  traditions  of  the  English  stage."  * 

The  scene  which  follows,  the  4th  of  the  4th  Act,  is  one  of  those 
scenes  so  frequent  in  Shakespeare's  Plays  which,  by  their  common- 
placeness  and  even,  sometimes,  vulgarity,  serve  to  deepen  the 
impressions  of  the  sad  and  the  tragic.  In  the  5th  Scene,  the  Nurse 
finds  Juliet  dead,  as  is  supposed,  in  her  chamber,  and  clamorous 
selfish  lamentation  follows.  In  the  midst  of  it,  Friar  Laurence 
and  Paris,  with  musicians,  enter.  The  Friar  subordinates  what, 
under  the  circumstances,  he  must  regard  as  an  inferior  principle, 
to  a  superior,  and  speaks  as  one  knowing  nothing  more  of  the  case 
than  the  rest,  and  silences  the  clamor. 

'*  Peace,  ho,  for  shame  !  confusion's  cure  lives  not 
In  these  confusions.     Heaven  and  yourself 
Had  part  in  this  fair  maid ;  now  heaven  hath  all, 
And  all  the  better  is  it  for  the  maid ; 
Your  part  in  her  you  could  not  keep  from  death ; 
But  heaven  keeps  his  part  in  eternal  life. 


*  Lord  Lytton's  article  is  reprinted  in  "  Shakesperiana,"  January,  1885,  Vol. 
II.  No.  xiii.  pp.  1-22. 


140  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

The  most  you  sought  was  her  promotion ; 
For  'twas  your  heaven,  she  should  be  advanc'd : 
And  weep  ye  now,  seeing  she  is  advanced  — 
Above  the  clouds,  as  high  as  heaven  itself  ? 
O,  in  this  love,  you  love  your  child  so  ill, 
That  you  run  mad,  seeing  that  she  is  well :  * 
She's  not  well  married  that  lives  married  long ; 
But  she's  best  married  that  dies  married  young. 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  stick  your  rosemary 
On  this  fair  corse ;  and,  as  the  custom  is, 
In  all  her  best  array  bear  her  to  church : 
For  though  some  f  nature  bids  us  all  lament, 
Yet  nature's  tears  are  reason's  merriment." 

And  when  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  Paris,  and  Friar  go  out,  the 
dialogue  between  Peter  and  the  musicians  summoned  to  poor 
Juliet's  marriage  serves,  as  did  the  scene  following  Juliet's  tak- 
ing of  the  potion,  to  deepen  the  impression  of  the  sad  occasion. 
Who  can  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  grimness  of  such  contrast- 
ing scenes  ?  They  are  a  feature  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  art 
which  was  quite  new  to  the  world,  and  which  especially  shocked 
the  classical  critics  of  the  last  century.  But  criticism  has  taken  a 
higher  stand,  and  approvingly  recognizes  in  such  scenes,  the  bitter 
irony  which  humanity  everywhere  presents. 

(See  "Contrasting  Scenes,"  pp.  50  and  51,  in  "The  Shake- 
speare Key."  By  Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clarke ;  and  "  On 
the  Porter  in  Macbeth."  By  J.  W.  Hales.  The  New  Shak- 
spere  Society's  Transactions.  1874.  pp.  255-269.) 

The  end  of  the  4th  day  of  the  Play  has  now  been  reached,  and 
the  5th  is  entered  upon  at  Mantua  (A.  V.  Sc.  i.).  "The  lively 
and  cheerful  images  of  this  [Juliet's  epithalamic]  soliloquy  are  in 
striking  contrast  with  the  situation  of  the  speaker,  and  serve  to 
heighten  the  pity  with  which  we  anticipate  the  fate  of  the  lovely 


*  " We  use  to  say  the  dead  are   well"  —  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  A.  II. 
Sc.  v.  32. 

t  The  reading  of  O_q.  and  F.1      Most  editions  substitute  "  fond,"  i.e.,  foolish. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  14 1 

and  unconscious  victim.  By  a  similar  resort  to  this  lightning  be- 
fore death,  the  poet  has,  at  a  later  period  of  the  action,  skilfully 
filled  the  mind  of  his  hero  with  happy  dreams  and  joyful  presages, 
which  throw  the  approaching  catastrophe  into  deep  and  dark- 
shadowed  relief." 

"  Rom.    If  I  may  trust  the  flattering  truth  of  sleep, 
My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news  at  hand  : 
My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his  throne ; 
And  all  this  day,  an  unaccustom'd  spirit 
Lifts  me  above  the  ground  with  cheerful  thoughts. 
I  dreamt,  my  lady  came  and  found  me  dead  :  — 
Strange  dream,  that  gives  a  dead  man  leave  to  think!  — 
And  breathed  such  life  with  kisses  in  my  lips, 
That  I  revived,  and  was  an  emperor. 
Ah  me  !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  possess'd, 
When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy ! 

Enter  BALTHASAR. 

News  from  Verona !  —  How  now,  Balthasar? 
Dost  thou  not  bring  me  letters  from  the  friar? 
How  doth  my  lady?     Is  my  father  well? 
How  fares  my  Juliet  ?     That  I  ask  again  ; 
For  nothing  can  be  ill,  if  she  be  well. 

BaL   Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill : 
Her  body  sleeps  in  Capels'  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 
I  saw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault, 
And  presently  took  post  to  tell  it  you : 
O,  pardon  me  for  bringing  these  ill  news, 
Since  you  did  leave  it  for  my  office,  sir. 

Rom.    Is  it  even  so?  then  I  defy  you,  stars  !  —  " 

As  the  poet  indicated  the  point  where  Juliet  attained  to  self- 
poised,  self-reliant  womanhood,  in  her  one  short  sentence  to  the 
Nurse,  to  whom,  when  father  and  mother  failed  in  sympathy,  she 
appealed  for  comfort  and  received  none,  "Go,  counsellor,  thou  * 
and  my  bosom  shall  be  henceforth  twain,"  so  he  has  also  indicated 
the  point  where  Romeo  attains  to  self-poised,  self-reliant  manhood. 


142  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

in  the  short  sentence,  "  then  I  defy  you,  stars!  "  From  this  point, 
Romeo  is  completely  master  of  himself —  nothing  outside  of  him- 
self can  sway  his  purpose  :  which  purpose  is,  as  he  expresses  it, 
over  the  supposed  dead  body  of  Juliet,  "  to  shake  the  yoke  of  in- 
auspicious stars  from  his  world-wearied  flesh."  This  explains 
"Then  I  defy  you,  stars  !  " 

He  continues  his  speech  to  Balthasar  : 

"  Thou  know'st  my  lodging  :  get  me  ink  and  paper, 
And  hire  post-horses ;  I  will  hence  to-night. 

Bal.   I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  have  patience  ; 
Your  looks  are  pale  and  wild,  and  do  import 
Some  misadventure. 

Rom.  Tush,  thou  art  deceived  ; 

Leave  me,  and  do  the  thing  I  bid  thee  do. 
Hast  thou  no  letters  to  me  from  the  friar? 

Bal.   No,  my  good  lord. 

Rom.  No  matter :  get  thee  gone, 

And  hire  those  horses :  I'll  be  with  thee  straight. 

\Exit  BALTHASAR. 
Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night." 

He  buys  a  poison  of  an  apothecary,  and  sets  off  immediately 
for  Verona.  In  the  2d  Scene  of  the  5th  Act,  we  learn  how  Friar 
John,  who  was  sent  by  Friar  Laurence  with  a  letter  to  Romeo, 
informing  him  of  his  plans  for  his  reunion  with  Juliet,  was  pre- 
vented from  delivering  it.  As  soon  as  Friar  John  returns  with  the 
letter,  Friar  Laurence  resolves  to  go  at  once  to  the  tomb  of  the 
Capulets,  to  be  on  hand  when  Juliet  awakes.  But  the  good  man 
arrives  too  late.  Before  he  enters  the  churchyard,  Romeo  has 
opened  the  tomb,  with  mattock  and  wrenching  iron,  has  fought 
with  and  slain  Paris,  has  taken  the  poison,  and  is  already  dead, 
having,  in  the  conclusion  of  his  soliloquy  over  the  supposed  dead 
body  of  his  Juliet,  given  expression  to  what  the  poet  is  at  the 
pains  to  emphasize  throughout  the  Play,  but  which  some  commen- 
tators have  closed  their  eyes  to,  namely,  that  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  "  star-crossed  lovers "  —  that  their  sorrows  are  due  to  objec- 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  143 

tive  outside  causes,  and  not  at  all  to  causes  existing  within  them- 
selves.    "  O  here,"  says  Romeo, 

"  Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest, 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 
From  this  world-wearied  flesh.  — Eyes,  look  your  last! 
Arms,  take  your  last  embrace  1  and  lips,  O  you 
The  doors  of  breath,  seal  with  a  righteous  kiss 
A  dateless  bargain  to  engrossing  death !  — 
Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavoury  guide! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark ! 
Here's  to  my  love!  —  \_Drinks. ~\     O,  true  apothecary  ! 
Thy  drugs  are  quick.  —  Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die." 

Even  Ruskin,  one  of  the  most  careful  of  readers,  says,  alluding 
to  Romeo's  forcing  open  the  vault,  "  the  wise  and  entirely  brave 
stratagem  of  the  wife  is  brought  to  ruinous  issue  by  the  reckless 
impatience  of  her  husband."  But  even  here  he  cannot  be  charged 
with  reckless  impatience.  He  is  unacquainted  with  the  friar's 
plan  and  has  been  informed  by  Balthasar  that  Juliet  is  dead  and 
that  her  body  has  been  placed  in  the  vault  of  the  Capulets  —  and 
he  of  course  believes  her  dead  when  he  opens  the  vault. 

Juliet  is,  however,  throughout  the  play,  more  purely  heroic  than 
Romeo.  She's  the  true  hero  of  the  play.  There's  an  interesting 
passage  in  Ruskin's  "Sesame  and  Lilies  (of  Queens'  Gardens)," 
as  to  the  superiority  of  Shakespeare's  heroines  to  his  heroes. 
He  asserts,  indeed,  in  his  bold  way,  that  "  Shakespeare  has  no 
heroes  ;  —  he  has  only  heroines." 

The  poet  has  brought  the  gentleness  (not  rashness)  of  Romeo, 
in  his  encounter  with  Paris,  into  the  same  bold  relief  as  in  his 
encounter  with  Tybalt.  What  a  contrast  the  two  present,  of  the 
genuine  and  the  conventional  ! 

Paris's  self- consciousness  and  self-complacency  are  shown  even 
when  he  strews  flowers  upon  Juliet's  tomb  : 

"  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  thy  bridal  bed  I  strew ; 
O  woe,  thy  canopy  is  dust  nnd  stones, 


144  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

Which  with  sweet  water  nightly  I  will  dew, 

Or,  wanting  that,  with  tears  distilled  by  moans." 

One  is  disposed  to  read  these  lines  with  a  lisp,  and  to  slur 
the  r's. 

Paris  observes  the  etiquette  of  bereavement.  He's  a  nice 
young  man,  he  is,  who  wouldn't  neglect  any  of  the  conventional 
proprieties  of  life  for  the  world.  But  such  nice  young  men,  and  so 
conventionally  correct  and  proper,  Juliets  generally  don't  take  to. 

It  seems  almost  a  mistake  to  call  the  play  a  tragedy,  as  it  has 
such  a  triumphant  ending  —  triumphant  in  regard  to  the  lovers 
themselves,  and  triumphant,  inasmuch  as  the  hostile  families  join 
hands  in  peace  over  the  dead  bodies  of  the  lovers.  The  very 
funeral  vault,  which  is  the  scene  of  their  final  acts,  acts  which 
seal  their  eternal  devotion,  is  invested  with  a  poetic  charm,  and 
filled  with  a  poetic  fragrance. 

The  Prince  says,  as  he  stands  with  the  heads  of  the  two  fam- 
ilies and  their  attendants,  in  front  of  the  monument  of  the  Cap- 
ulets,  before  the  day  has  dawned,  and  with  the  beautiful  bodies  of 
the  lovers  before  him  : 

"  Capulet !  —  Montague  ! 
See,  what  a  scourge  is  laid  upon  your  hate, 
That  heaven  finds  means  to  kill  your  joys  with  love ! 
And  I,  for  winking  at  your  discords  too, 
Have  lost  a  brace  of  kinsmen :  —  all  are  punish'd. 
Cap.   O  brother  Montague,  give  me  thy  hand. 
This  is  my  daughter's  jointure,  for  no  more 
Can  I  demand. 

Mon.  But  I  can  give  thee  more  : 

For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold ; 
That  whiles  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  such  rate  be  set, 
As  that  of  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 

Cap.   As  rich  shall  Romeo  by  his  lady  lie ; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity !  " 


COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND   JULIET.  145 


THE    COMMENTARY    ON    ROMEO    AND 
JULIET. 


THE  critics,  English,  German,  and  French,  have,  with  but  few 
exceptions,  attributed  to  Shakespeare  the  predetermination, 
in  this  Play,  of  exhibiting  the  bad,  the  fatal  consequences  of  vio- 
lent, unrestrained  passion  :  and  the  importance  of  moderation  — 
of  observing  the  golden  mean  between  too  much  and  too  little ; 
and  in  accordance  with  this  view,  they  have  regarded  Friar  Lau- 
rence as  the  poet's  spokesman  —  put  into  the  play  for  the  special 
purpose  of  vicariously  giving  voice  to  the  moderate  and  the  pru- 
dential. Such  a  mode  of  proceeding  may  be  necessary  to  dram- 
atists of  an  inferior  order,  whose  work  moves  under  the  condition 
of  a  notion  of  some  kind.  But  Shakespeare's  Plays,  none  of  them, 
move  under  such  condition.  He  chose  the  subject  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  for  its  passionate  capabilities ;  he  is  the  artistic  physi- 
ologist of  human  passion ;  and  having  strong  in  himself  the  health- 
iest moral  sensibilities,  his  penetrative,  plastic  intellect  manipu- 
lated his  material  with  such  artistic  skill  that  the  dramatic  result 
was  a  vivid  and  beautiful  poem,  bodying  forth  "  the  power  and  the 
triumph  of  love."  (The  leading  object  of  a  literary  and  artistic 
education  should  be,  to  take  in  the  concrete  and  the  personal  as 
a  direct,  immediate  language,  not  an  indirect,  a  mediate  language 
which  has  to  be  translated  into  the  notional  before  it  means  any- 
thing. But  such  is  the  set  of  the  general  mind  in  these  days, 
learned  and  unlearned,  that  the  concrete  and  the  personal  are, 
more  or  less,  like  a  foreign  language  which  has  to  be  translated 
into  the  more  familiar  language  of  the  intellect,  of  the  abstract 
and  the  notional?) 


146  COMMENTARY   ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

What  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  good  Friar  Laurence,  rather 
than  expressing,  as  many  of  the  leading  commentators  understand 
it,  the  designed  moral  of  the  Play,  offsets,  in  the  way  of  sober 
philosophy,  what  Shakespeare  must  have  regarded  as  nobler  than 
a  sober  philosophy,  —  namely,  a  love  which,  under  the  wholly 
adverse  circumstances  by  which  it  was  beset,  was  destined  to  a 
tragic  issue ;  but  that  tragic  issue  had  itself  an  issue  which  devo- 
tion unto  death  on  the  part  of  the  lovers,  alone  could  have 
brought  about.  This  is  explicitly  set  forth  in  the  Prologue, 
which  is  the  best  key  to  the  Play,  whether  furnished  by  Shake- 
speare himself  or  not.  It  is  omitted  in  the  Folios.  In  the  ist 
Quarto  it  consists  of  but  1 2  lines,  and  is  evidently  not  a  true  ren- 
dering of  the  original.  The  form  in  which  it  is  now  always  printed 
is  that  of  the  2d  Quarto  of  1599.  It  contains  no  charge  against 
the  lovers  of  " rashness,"  "imprudence,"  "want  of  proper  re- 
straint," and  the  like,  to  which  the  sorrows  and  death  of  the 
lovers  are  attributed  by  so  many  commentators. 

"  Two  households,  both  alike  in  dignity, 
In  fair  Verona,  where  we  lay  our  scene, 
From  ancient  grudge  break  to  new  mutiny, 
Where  civil  blood  makes  civil  hands  unclean. 
From  forth  the  fatal  loins  of  these  two  foes 
A  pair  of  star-crossed  lovers  take  their  life ; 
Whose  misadventur'd  piteous  overthrows 
Doth  with  their  death  bury  their  parents'  strife. 
The  fearful  passage  of  their  death-mark'd  love, 
And  the  continuance  of  their  parents1  rage, 
Which,  but  their  children's  end,  nought  could  remove, 
Is  now  the  two  hours'  traffic  of  our  stage ; 
The  which  if  you  with  patient  ears  attend, 
What  here  shall  miss,  our  toil  shall  strive  to  mend." 

Nothing  about  fatal  rashness  on  the  part  of  the  lovers ;  the 
causes  of  their  piteous  overthrows  are  all  objective  (outside,  of 
themselves),  not  subjective  (within  themselves).  This  is  the 
most  important  point  to  recognize  at  the  outset  of  the  study  of 


COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  147 

the  play.  And  it's  important  in  itself,  as  it  involves  a  true  under- 
standing of  the  poet's  dramatic  art  —  while  the  view,  so  generally 
entertained  (by  critics),  that  the  ardent  love  which  is  the  subject 
of  the  drama,  is  presented  as  something  to  be  condemned  for  its 
violent  excess,  involves  a  false  understanding  of  the  poet's  dra- 
matic art.  As  indicating  the  general  drift  of  criticism  on  the 
Play,  in  regard  to  the  lovers,  I  shall  cite  a  number  of  passages 
(some  of  them  of  considerable  length)  from  critics  of  high  au- 
thority. I  do  this  to  show  that  I'm  not  gratuitously  insisting  on 
what  many  an  unsophisticated  reader,  on  what  most  unsophisti- 
cated readers,  would  regard  as  a  thing  of  course. 

And  first  Dr.  Gervinus,  in  his  "  Shakespeare  Commentaries  "  : 
"...  in  the  midst  of  the  world,"  he  says,  "agitated  by  love  and 
hatred,  he  [Shakespeare]  has  placed  Friar  Laurence,  whom  ex- 
perience, retirement,  and  age,  have  deprived  of  inclination  to 
either.  By  him,  who,  as  it  were,  represents  the  part  of  the  chorus 
in  this  tragedy,  the  leading  idea  of  the  piece  is  expressed  in  all  ful- 
ness, an  idea  that  runs  throughout  the  whole,  namely,  that  excess 
in  any  enjoyment  however  pure  in  itself,  transforms  its  sweet  into 
bitterness,  that  devotion  to  any  single  feeling  however  noble,  be- 
speaks its  ascendency ;  that  this  ascendency  moves  the  man  and 
woman  out  of  their  natural  spheres ;  that  love  can  only  be  a  com- 
panion to  life,  and  cannot  fully  fill  out  the  life  and  business  of  the 
man  especially ;  that,  in  the  full  power  of  its  first  rising,  it  is  a 
paroxysm  of  happiness,  which  according  to  its  nature  cannot  con- 
tinue in  equal  strength ;  that,  as  the  poet  says  in  an  image,  it  is  a 

flower  that 

"  '  Being  smelt,  with  that  part  cheers  each  part ; 
Being  tasted,  slays  all  senses  with  the  heart.' 

[Friar  Laurence  says  this  in  his  own  person  :  Shakespeare  doesn't 
say  it.] 

"These  ideas,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "are  placed  by  the  poet  in 
the  lips  of  the  wise  Laurence  in  almost  a  moralizing  manner,  with 
gradually  increasing  emphasis,  as  if  he  would  provide  most  cir- 
cumspectly that  no  doubt  should  remain  of  his  meaning." 


148  COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

That  is,  Shakespeare  set  about  driving  firmly  into  our  heads, 
and  clinching,  this  wonderful  moral  of  moderation.  If  that's  the 
purpose  of  the  play,  it  ought  to  be  entitled  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing.  What  an  ado  to  enforce  so  little  !  And  that  little, 
what  the  whole  human  race  has  known  since  the  Flood,  and  no 
doubt  knew  before  the  Flood. 

It  is  no  more  the  purpose  of  the  play  to  teach  moderation,  than 
it  is  the  purpose  of  a  violent  rain-storm  which  beats  down  the 
farmer's  crops,  and  washes  away  the  garden  beds,  to  teach  mod- 
eration ;  or  than  it  is  the  purpose  of  a  freshet  on  the  Ohio  River 
which  destroys  life  and  property,  to  teach  the  importance  of  mod- 
eration. What  professorial  nonsense  !  The  student  whose  mind 
is  set  on  moral  didacticism,  and  insists  on  it,  should  study  some 
other  author  than  Shakespeare.  The  moral  platitudes  of  Tupper's 
Proverbial  Philosophy  would  suit  him  better. 

Shakespeare  nowhere  in  his  works  shows  himself  nervously  anx- 
ious that  his  meaning  in  the  abstract  be  correctly  understood.  // 
is  not  the  abstract  which  he  is  occupied  with.  If  he  did  so  show 
himself,  he  would  not  be  the  great  dramatist  he  is  :  for  that  would 
imply  that  he  was  occupied  overmuch  with  the  notional,  to  the 
detriment  of  the  concrete  vitality  of  his  art.  And  it  is  because  the 
real  creative  energy  of  the  poet  was  ever  dominant,  in  the  compo- 
sition of  his  Plays,  that  theories  which  no  man  can  number  have 
been  raised,  as  to  his  meanings,  by  minds  with  a  predominant  no- 
tional drift.  Such  minds  are  not  brought  into  requisite  sympathy 
with  the  creative  energy,  and  therefore  occupy  themselves  with 
picking  nice  little  moral  pebbles  out  of  the  stream  of  that  creative 
energy. 

(What  a  lovely  moral  was  that  which  the  laborious  student  of 
Homer,  alluded  to  somewhere  by  De  Quincey,  extracted,  after 
much  patient  investigation,  from  the  Iliad  !  "  Keep  the  peace, 
gentlemen,  you  see  what  comes  of  fighting!  ") 

To  continue  with  Gervinus  :  "  Friar  Laurence  utters  these  ideas 
of  the  poet  in  his  first  soliloquy,  under  the  simile  of  the  vegetable 
world  with  which  he  is  occupied,  in  a  manner  merely  instructive 


COMMENTARY   ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  149 

and  as  if  without  application ;  he  expresses  them  warningly,  when 
he  unites  the  lovers,  at  the  moment  when  he  assists  them,  and 
finally  he  repeats  them  reprovingly  to  Romeo  in  his  cell,  when  he 
sees  the  latter  undoing  himself  and  his  own  work,  and  he  predicts 
what  the  end  will  be." 

"Nought,"  says  the  holy  man  in  the  first  of  these  passages 
(A.  II.  Sc.  iii.  17-30), 

"  Nought  so  vile  that  on  the  earth  doth  live, 
But  to  the  earth  some  special  good  doth  give ; 
Nor  aught  so  good,  but,  strain'd  from  that  fair  use, 
Revolts  from  true  birth,  stumbling  on  abuse. 
Virtue  itself  turns  vice,  being  misapplied, 
And  vice  sometime's  by  action  dignified. 
Within  the  infant  rind  of  this  weak  flower 
Poison  hath  residence,  and  medicine  power : 
For  this,  being  smelt,  with  that  part  cheers  each  part, 
Being  tasted,  slays  all  senses  with  the  heart. 
Two  such  opposed  kings  encamp  them  still 
In  man  as  well  as  herbs,  —  Grace  and  rude  Will ; 
And  where  the  worser  is  predominant, 
Full  soon  the  canker  death  eats  up  that  plant." 

This  soliloquy,  be  it  understood,  is  uttered  by  the  good  friar 
before  he  knows  anything  of  the  loves  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  It  gives 
expression  to  his  prudential,  golden-mean  philosophy,  just  such  a 
philosophy  as  such  a  man  would  be  expected  to  hold  and  practise, 
and  to  advocate.  If  it  could  be  shown  that  it  was  meant  by  the 
poet  to  have  a  direct  bearing  upon  the  loves  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
it  could  be  condemned  as  an  artistic  defect,  in  its  being  thus  brought 
in  before  the  Friar  has  knowledge  of  their  loves.  But  Gervinus 
remarks  on  the  soliloquy :  "  We  see  plainly,  that  these  two  quali- 
ties [meaning  "grace"  and  "rude  will"]  which  make  Romeo  a 
hero  and  a  slave  of  love ;  in  happiness  with  his  Juliet  he  displays 
his  '  grace,'  in  so  rich  a  measure,  that  he  quickly  triumphs  over  a 
being  so  gifted ;  in  misfortune  he  destroys  all  the  charm  of  these 
gifts  through  the  '  rude  will,'  with  which  Laurence  reproaches  him. 


150  COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

In  the  second  of  the  passages  pointed  out,  Romeo,  on  the  threshold 
of  his  happiness,  challenges  love-devouring  death  to  do  what  he 
dare,  so  that  he  may  only  call  Juliet  his ;  and  in  warning  reproof, 
Friar  Laurence  tells  him,  in  a  passage  which  the  poet  has  first  in- 
serted in  his  revision  of  the  play,  applying  the  idea  of  that  straining 
of  the  good  from  its  fair  use  (A.  II.  Sc.  vi.  9-14)  : 

"  '  These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends 

And  in  their  triumph  die,  like  fire  and  powder 
Which  as  they  kiss  consume.     The  sweetest  honey 
Is  loathsome  in  his  own  deliciousness 
And  in  the  taste  confounds  the  appetite. 
Therefore,  love  moderately ;  long  love  doth  so.'  " 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  the  poet  could  not  have  made  the  friar, 
in  accordance  with  his  own  character,  say  other  than  what  he  does, 
on  this  occasion ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  the  friar  has  taken  a 
great  deal  upon  himself,  in  uniting  in  marriage  the  representatives 
of  two  powerful  houses,  between  whom  a  fierce  hostility  has  long 
raged.  He  is,  of  course,  very  anxious  about  the  possible  conse- 
quences, notwithstanding  that  he  hopes,  as  he  expresses  it  at  the 
end  of  the  3d  Scene  of  the  2d  Act, 

"  this  alliance  may  so  happy  prove 
To  turn  the  household's  rancour  to  pure  love." 

His  prudential  character,  accordingly,  comes  fully  to  the  front. 
He  is  himself,  and  not  a  chorus,  not  a  personified  emanation  of 
the  poet,  as  Gervinus  makes  him,  contrary  to  Shakespeare's  almost 
unvarying  dramatic  art.  Shakespeare  doesn't  trouble  himself  about 
interpreting  abstractly  his  own  work  to  us.  Friar  Laurence  off- 
sets, it  is  true,  the  ardency  of  the  lovers,  just  as  he  may  also  be 
said  to  offset  the  general  violent  state  of  things  around  him.  Shake- 
speare is  a  great  master  of  contrast,  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  effec- 
tive agencies  of  his  dramatic  art,  as  it  is,  indeed,  one  of  every  form 
of  art  —  "  as  fundamentally  necessary  as  symmetry,  moderation,  or 
congruity."  *  (See  "Shakespeare  Key,"  pp.  50,  51.) 


*  Blackie,  "On  Beauty,"  p.  149. 


COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  151 

To  continue  a  moment  longer  with  Gervinus.  After  the  last 
quotation  given,  "  These  violent  delights  have  violent  end,"  the 
friar  goes  on  to  say  (A.  III.  Sc.  iii.  122-134)  : 

"  Fie,  fie,  thou  shamest  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy  wit ; 
Which,  like  a  usurer,  abound'st  in  all, 
And  usest  none  in  that  true  use  indeed 
Which  should  bedeck  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy  wit : 
Thy  noble  shape  is  but  a  form  of  wax, 
Digressing  from  the  valour  of  a  man ; 
Thy  dear  love  sworn,  but  hollow  perjury, 
Killing  that  love  which  thou  hast  vowed  to  cherish ; 
Thy  wit,  that  ornament  to  shape  and  love, 
Misshapen  in  the  conduct  of  them  both, 
Like  powder  in  a  skilless  soldier's  flask, 
Is  set  a-fire  by  thine  own  ignorance, 
And  thou  dismember'd  with  thine  own  defence." 

"With  this  significant  image,"  Gervinus  continues,  "we  see 
Romeo  subsequently  rushing  to  death,  when  he  procures  from  the 
apothecary  the  poison  by  which  the  trunk  is 

"  '  discharged  of  breath 
As  violently,  as  hasty  powder  fir'd 
Doth  hurry,  from  the  fatal  cannon's  womb.' " 

On  this  simile,  Gervinus  remarks :  "  Thrice  has  the  poet  [no, 
not  the  poet,  but  the  good,  moderate  Friar  Laurence]  with  this 
same  simile,  designated  the  inflaming  heart  of  this  love,  which  too 
quickly  causes  the  paroxysm  of  happiness  to  consume  itself  and  to 
vanish,  and  he  could  choose  no  moral  aphorism,  which  with  such 
simple  expressiveness  could  have  demonstrated  the  aim  of  his 
representation,  but  just  this  image  alone." 

Ulrici,  in  his  "  Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Art :  and  his  relation  to 
Calderon  and  Goethe,"  after  speaking  of  love  as  "  the  noblest  and 
most  exalted  privilege  that  man  enjoys,"  continues  :  "  But  even 
because  it  is  in  its  nature  thus  eminently  noble  and  sublime,  does 
love  become,  so  soon  as  it  attaches  itself  to  the  finiteness  of  pas- 


152  COMMENTARY   ON  ROMEO   AND   JULIET. 

sion  and  desire,  and  so  long  as  it  remains  impurified  from  earthly 
dregs,  a  fatally  destructive  force,  whose  triumphs  are  celebrated 
amid  ruin  and  death.  It  is  even  because  it  is  in  its  true  essence 
of  a  celestial  origin,  that  it  hurries  along,  with  demoniacal  and 
irresistible  energy,  all  who  misuse  its  godlike  gifts,  and  who, 
plunged  in  the  abyss  of  self- forge tfulness,  lavish  all  the  riches  of  a 
heavenly  endowment  on  the  lowly  sphere  of  their  earthly  existence. 
It  is  in  such  a  light  that  Romeo  is  presented  to  us  at  the  very 
opening  of  the  piece.  The  faculty  of  loving,  which  pervades  his 
whole  being,  and  which  is  assigned  to  him  in  so  eminent  a  degree, 
instead  of  being  refined  and  spiritualized  by  its  sexual  object  and 
passion,  becomes  merged  in  passionate  yearning  and  desire.  He 
thus  becomes  the  slave  of  the  very  power  whose  master  he  ought 
to  be.  Accordingly,  at  the  very  opening  of  the  piece,  he  appears 
carried  away  by  it,  as  it  were,  by  some  malignant  and  irresistible 
influence,  and  hurried  along  at  its  caprice.  In  order  to  throw  out 
this  caprice  in  a  still  stronger  light,  Shakespeare  introduces  him  to 
us  in  a  dreamy  passion  for  Rosaline.  Involuntarily,  and  as  it 
were,  mechanically,  is  he  precipitated,  out  of  his  fancy  for  Rosa- 
line, into  the  deeper  and  mightier  passion  for  Juliet.  Two  hearts 
made  for  each  other,  combine  at  first  sight,  into  indissoluble  unity ; 
the  force  of  nature,  being  allowed  free  course,  overcomes  at  once 
all  the  barriers  of  custom  and  circumstance.  As  the  lightning  has 
already  struck  before  a  man  can  say  it  lightens,  so,  in  their  hearts 
a  blazing  flame  has  been  quickly  and  irresistibly  kindled,  whose 
destroying  might  both  feel  and  suspect  without  the  power  or  even 
the  wish  to  oppose  it.  In  both  there  is  the  same  excess  of  inflam- 
mable matter ;  even  Juliet  possesses  the  same  rich  abundance  of 
love  —  the  divine  gift  in  its  largest  measure  ;  and  with  her,  too,  the 
mighty  waters  all  hurry  to  the  same  point,  and  thus,  instead  of 
diffusing  fertility  and  blessing,  they  do  but  rise  above  their  bed 
to  scatter  death  and  desolation  around.  Both  are  high-born, 
richly  gifted,  and  noble  of  nature ;  both  have  earth  and  heaven 
within  their  bosoms ;  but  they  pervert  their  loveliest  and  noblest 
gifts  into  sin,  corruption,  and  evil ;  they  mar  their  rare  excellence 


COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  153 

by  making  idols  of  each  other,  and  fanatically  sacrificing  all  things 
to  their  idolatry." 

In  the  next  paragraph  he  characterizes  their  love  as  "  This  pas- 
sionateness  —  this  fatal  vehemence  of  love,"  etc. 

Here  we  have  the  same  general  idea  as  that  set  forth  by  Ger- 
vinus,  only  it  is,  even  more  strongly  put. 

And  even  Coleridge  says  :  "  With  Romeo  his  precipitate  change 
of  passion,  his  hasty  marriage,  and  rash  death,  are  all  the  effects 
of  youth." 

The  cold  and  judicial  Hallam,  in  his  "  Introduction  to  the 
Literature  of  Europe,"  represents  Juliet  as  "  a  child,  whose  intoxi- 
cation in  loving  and  being  loved  whirls  away  the  little  reason  she 
may  have  possessed."  He  further  says  :  "  It  is  however  impossi- 
ble, in  my  opinion,  to  place  her  among  the  great  female  characters 
of  Shakespeare's  creation." 

Well,  that  may  be.  But  Juliet  realizes  all  that  the  great  poet 
aims  after,  dramatically  —  a  lyric  melody  of  passion,  not  an  orches- 
tral symphony  of  emotion  such  as  some  of  his  later  great  plays 
exhibit. 

Further  on  Hallam  says  : 

"  It  seems  to  have  formed  part  of  his  [Shakespeare's]  concep- 
tion of  this  youthful  and  ardent  pair  that  they  should  talk  irra- 
tionally. The  extravagance  of  their  fancy,  however,  not  only 
forgets  reason,  but  wastes  itself  in  frigid  metaphors  and  incon- 
gruous conceptions ;  the  tone  of  Romeo  is  that  of  the  most  bom- 
bastic commonplace  of  gallantry,  and  the  young  lady  differs  in 
being  only  one  degree  more  mad.  The  voice  of  virgin  love  has 
been  counterfeited  by  the  authors  of  many  fictions :  I  know  none 
who  have  thought  the  style  of  Juliet  would  represent  it." 

Here  the  idea  is  again,  that  of  rashness,  lightheadedness,  unrea- 
sonableness, and  their  attendant  follies.  Hallam  shows  himself 
here  quite  unfit  to  be  a  judge  in  such  matters.  He  would  no 
doubt  have  preferred  the  diplomacy  of  love-making  which  we  are 
entertained  with  in  some  of  the  many  fictions  to  which  he  refers. 
Would  the  play,  could  the  play,  possess  such  a  charm  for  the 


154  COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND   JULIET. 

cultivated  world,  if  these  critics  are  right?  Two  rash,  giddy- 
headed  lovers,  flinging  themselves  into  destruction  —  a  subject  for 
the  greatest  love  poem  in  the  world  !  It  is  preposterous. 

Maginn,  in  his  "  Shakespeare  Papers,"  says  :  "Romeo  leaves  all 
to  the  steerage  of  Heaven,  —  i.e.,  to  the  heady  current  of  his  own 
passions  ;  and  he  succeeds  accordingly." 

He  gives  as  the  moral  of  the  play,  two  lines  from  Juvenal  (Sat. 
*•  365>  366)  : 

"Nullum  numen  habes,  si  sit  prudentia;  nos  te 
Nos  facimus,  Fortuna,  deam,  coeloque  locamus."  * 

Alfred  Mezieres,  in  his  "  Shakespeare,  ses  GEuvres  et  ses  Cri- 
tiques," remarks  :  "The  philosophy  of  the  Friar  is  but  the  judgment 
'which  the  poet  pronounces  from  the  background  of  the  tragedy. 
When  the  Friar  speaks,  we  seem  to  hear  the  reflections  which  the 
poet  is  making  aloud  to  himself  as  the  play  comes  from  his  crea- 
tive hands.  [As  if  the  Poet  hadn't  anything  better  to  do  than 
that !]  Under  the  garb  of  the  monk,  Shakespeare  communicates 
to  us  the  results  of  his  personal  experience,  and  the  conclusions  to 
which  the  spectacle  of  the  world  has  led  him.  [What  a  moral 
observer  he  must  have  been  !]  He  was  profoundly  versed  in  the 
study  of  human  nature ;  he  knew  its  weaknesses,  its  contradic- 
tions, its  impatient  desires,  its  rashness  attended  by  boundless 
hope  and  followed  by  utter  despair,  its  misfortunes  whether  merited 
or  self-provoked ;  he  knew  the  self-deception  man  so  often  prac- 
tises ;  all  this  he  knew,  and  yet  the  knowledge  never  lessens  his 
indulgence,  or  his  sympathy  for  his  fellow-creatures."  What  a 
kind,  charitable  fellow  he  was  !  Here  we  have  the  Friar  again  as 
Chorus,  and  Shakespeare,  not  as  dramatist,  occupied  with  giving 
life,  but  as  a  moralist  giving  us  the  results  of  his  personal  experi- 
ence, and  the  conclusions  to  which  the  spectacle  of  the  world  has 
led  him,  from  a  moral  point  of  view  ! 


*  "  Thou  hast  no  deity,  O  Fortune,  if  there  be  prudence  ;  but  thee  we  make 
a  goddess,  and  place  in  heaven." 


™"- 


COMMENTARY  ON  ROM. 

"  It  is  but  natural,"  says  Taine,  "  that  such  love  should  be  fol- 
lowed by  supreme  calamities  and  fatal  resolves.  Ophelia  becomes 
insane,  Juliet  kills  herself,  and  that  the  insanity  and  the  suicide 
are  inevitable  every  one  feels." 

Tieck,  in  "  Dramaturgische  Blatter  "  (Vol.  I.  p.  256,  Breslau, 
1826),  says  : 

"Romeo's  temperament  is,  on  the  whole,  much  more  gloomy 
than  Juliet's ;  in  the  garden-scene  his  soul  lights  up,  but  in  good 
fortune  as  in  bad,  he  is  violent  and  rough."  That's  just  what  he 
is  not.  There  are  no  epithets  less  appropriate  to  Romeo  than 
violent  and  rough.  "This  vigorous  manhood  which  so  easily 
oversteps  the  bounds  of  mildness  and  tenderness,  harming  both 
itself  and  others,  and  losing  all  moderation  and  restraint  when 
enraged,  this  it  is  that  in  real  life  enkindles  such  manifold  pas- 
sions and  suffers  so  deeply  and  powerfully.  This  exuberance  of 
life,  sooner  or  later,  in  one  way  or  another,  involves  in  ruin  both 
itself  and  the  object  of  its  idolatry ;  and  this  lesson  Friar  Lau- 
rence constantly  preaches  to  the  rash  youth.  .  .  ."  Further  on 
he  says  :  "The  tragic  fate  lies  in  the  character  of  Juliet,  and  es- 
pecially of  Romeo.  ...  He  must,  Juliet  must,  perish;  the 
necessity  lay  in  their  very  natures" 

No,  the  necessity  lay  in  the  circumstances  with  which  they 
were  beset.  The  necessity  was  objective. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think,"  he  adds,  "  that  the  role  of  Friar 
Laurence  the  Poet  wrote  for  himself ;  "  etc. 

Mrs.  Jameson,  in  concluding  her  long  article  on  Juliet,  remarks  : 

"  With  all  this  immense  capacity  of  affection  and  imagination, 
there  is  a  deficiency  of  reflective  and  of  moral  energy  arising  from 
previous  habit  and  education ;  and  the  action  of  the  drama,  while 
it  serves  to  develop  the  character,  appears  but  its  natural  and  nec- 
essary result.  '  Le  mystere  de  1'existence,'  said  Madame  de  Stael 
to  her  daughter, '  c'est  le  rapport  de  nos  erreurs  avec  nos  peines.'  " 

In  this  passage,  as  in  all  the  others  cited,  the  calamitous  course 
and  fatal  end  of  the  heroine's  love,  are  attributed  to  subjective 
causes  —  to  defect  of  character  and  impropriety  of  conduct.  The 


156  COMMENTARY   ON  ROMEO  AND   JULIET, 

inference,  too,  may  be  drawn  from  most  of  them,  that  if  the  lovers 
had  only  understood  the  diplomatic  style  of  love,  things  might 
have  gone  better  with  them.  Such  criticism  degrades  the  Play 
to  a  piece  of  prudential  didacticism,  of  which  Friar  Laurence  is 
the  mouth-piece.  The  dear  old  man  is  himself,  and  lives  his 
own  life ;  and  that  may  be  said  of  all  Shakespeare's  characters. 
The  lovers  are  themselves  and  live  their  own  lives.  The  former 
is  not  a  mere  personification  of  moderation  and  prudence  placed 
beside  the  latter  as  personifications  of  rashness  and  imprudence, 
in  order  to  bring  these  qualities  into  bold  relief,  and  to  impress 
us  with  a  sense  of  what  bad  things  they  are,  and  how  dire  their 
consequences  may  be.  Shakespeare,  it  is*  true,  makes  the  Friar 
condemn  the  ardency  of  the  lovers,  but  he  condemns  it  in  propria 
persona.  That's  quite  a  different  thing  from  saying  that  the  play, 
as  a  play,  is  designed  to  condemn  it. 

Bodenstedt,  of  all  the  German  commentators,  comes  the  nearest, 
I  think,  to  a  correct  view  of  the  case.  In  the  Introduction  to  his 
translation  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  1868,  he  says  : 

"The  maxims  and  sentences  of  Friar  Laurence  are  so  general 
that  they  hardly  admit  of  application  to  special  cases,  and  least  of 
all  do  they  justify  the  opinion  of  various  commentators  that  the 
Poet  intended  in  them  to  bring  fully  out  the  leading  thoughts  of 
this  tragedy.  '  Passion  gives  power,'  says  the  Poet,  and  he  makes 
the  calm,  moderate  wisdom  of  Father  Laurence  give  way  to  the 
passion  of  Romeo,  not  the  reverse.  Indeed,  could  we  for  a  mo- 
ment imagine  the  ardor  of  the  young  lovers  changed  or  cooled  by 
the  persuasive  breath  of  the  Friar's  lips,  our  interest  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet  would  be  extinguished  instantly.  But  that  interest  is 
increased  when  the  Friar  gives  the  benediction  of  the  Church  to 
the  tie  woven  by  the  purest  and  noblest  passion." 

I  have  dwelt  thus  long  on  this  one  point,  because  I  consider  it 
a  most  important  one  —  the  most  important,  as  upon  it  a  true 
estimate  and  appreciation  of  the  Play,  as  a  whole,  depends.  A 
true  estimate  and  appreciation  of  Shakespeare's  mode  of  dra- 
matization depend  upon  it.  The  views  I  have  cited,  of  Gervinus, 


COMMENTARY  ON  ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  157 

Ulrici,  and  other  commentators,  in  regard  to  the  moral  of  the 
Tragedy,  lead  the  student  to  an  essential  misunderstanding  of  the 
Play  and  also  of  the  Shakespearian  treatment  of  passion,  in  gen- 
eral. Shakespeare  is  not  a  moralist,  in  the  small  sense  of  the  word  ; 
and  he  hadn't  a  drop  of  missionary  blood  in  his  veins ;  in  the 
composition  of  his  Plays,  he  always  had  higher  business  in  hand 
than  playing  the  part  of  a  moralist  or  missionary ;  but  he  exhibits 
everywhere  the  profoundest  moral  spirit. 

It  cannot,  indeed,  be  said  that  Shakespeare  ever  has  a  direct 
moral  purpose.  His  direct  purpose  is  always  a  dramatic  one.  He 
is  the  dramatist  —  the  dramatist  transcendently  and  exclusively. 
His  morals  are  morals  in  the  flesh,  and  the  interpretation  or 
formulation  of  them,  by  critics,  must  vary  according  to  the  great 
variety  of  individual  attitudes,  of  individual  modes  of  thinking  — 
of  individual  modes  of  feeling. 

Shakespeare  in  his  treatment  of  passion,  of  every  kind,  however 
violent  that  passion  may  be,  always  exhibits  it  under  the  condition 
of  Eternal  Law  !  It  is  in  this  that  the  moral  proportion  which  so 
characterizes  his  Plays,  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest,  consists. 
That  Eternal  Law  cannot  be  run  against  with  impunity.  But  this 
is  exhibited  concretely,  implicitly,  not  explicitly.  Shakespeare 
was  wholly  taken  up,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  the  dramatic  ex- 
hibition of  the  passion  of  pure  youthful  love.  He  is  the  naturalist 
who  traces  for  us  its  inception,  its  progress,  its  final  triumph  over 
all  obstacles ;  and  finally  its  regenerating  power  over  those  who 
endeavored  to  obstruct  its  clear  and  rapid  current. 


158  If  ING   JOHN. 


KING    JOHN. 


OHAKESPEARE  wrote  ten  English  historical  Plays,  in  eight  of 
w3  which  the  historical  connection  is  preserved ;  namely,  Richard 
II.,  Henry  IV.,  Parts  i  and  2  Henry  V.,  Henry  VI.,  Parts  i,  2, 
3,  and  Richard  III.,  which  includes  the  reigns  of  Edward  IV. 
and  Edward  V.,  and  ends  with  the  death  of  Richard,  and  the 
proclamation  of  Henry,  Earl  of  Richmond,  as  king.  After  Richard 
is  slain  by  Richmond,  Lord  Stanley  says  to  the  latter : 

"  Courageous  Richmond,  well  hast  thou  aquit  thee. 
Lo,  here,  this  long-usurped-  royalty, 
From  the  dead  temples  of  this  bloody  wretch, 
Have  I  pluck'd  off,  to  grace  thy  brows  withal ; 
Wear  it,  enjoy  it,  and  make  much  of  it." 

With  the  accession  of  Richmond,  as  Henry  VII.,  ended  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses.  Henry's  reign  is  passed  over  by  the  dramatist, 
as  wanting,  perhaps,  in  dramatic  interest. 

The  next,  and  the  last  in  historical  order,  is  the  play  of  Henry 
VIII.,  in  the  conclusion  of  which,  Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, in  a  long  speech,  at  the  baptism  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
prophesies  the  prosperity,  and  happiness,  and  glory  of  her  reign. 
The  play  is  thus  brought  down  quite  as  near  to  the  poet's  own 
time  as  was  perhaps  permissible. 

The  break  in  the  series  of  the  historical  plays  between  the 
earliest,  King  John,  and  Richard  II.,  is  partly  supplied  by  some 
events  of  the  intervals  which  are  referred  to  in  the  play  of  Henry  V. 

King  John  and  Henry  VIII.  may  be  regarded,  as  Schlegel  re- 
marks, as  the  Prologue  and  the  Epilogue  to  the  other  eight.  King 


KING   JO  PIN.  159 

John  strikes  the  keynote  of  the  whole  series,  that  keynote  being, 
nationality.  And  Shakespeare  wrote  these  historical  plays  at  a 
period  in  English  history,  when  the  sense  of  nationality  was  deeper 
than  it  had  ever  been  before,  or,  perhaps,  has  ever  been  since ; 
and  when  the  national  genius  had  reached  its  greatest  intensity,  as 
is  sufficiently  shown  by  the  wonderful  literary  products  of  the 
period  alone.  Shakespeare  appeared  at  the  most  favorable  time  in 
England's  history,  at  the  most  favorable  time,  indeed,  in  the  world's 
history,  for  the  production  of  a  great  drama.  It  is  questionable 
whether  there  will  ever  again  come  a  time  as  favorable. 

King  John  was  first  printed,  so  far  as  is  known,  in  the  Folio  of 
1623.  It  was  composed  in  1595  or  1596.  There  was  an  earlier 
play,  entitled  "  The  Troublesome  Raigne  of  John  King  of  England, 
with  the  discovery  of  King  Richard  Cordelions  base  son  (vulgarly 
named  The  Bastard  Fawconbridge)  :  also  the  death  of  King  John 
at  Swinstead  Abbey,  London,  1591." 

The  "Troublesome  Raigne  "  was  reprinted  in  1611,  with  "writ- 
ten by  W.  Sh.,"  on  the  title-page,  and  again  in  1622,  by  a  different 
bookseller,  with  "  written  by  W.  Shakespeare  "  on  the  title-page. 
Its  author  is  not  known.  Pope  supposed  it  to  be  the  work  of 
Rowley ;  but  there  are  no  grounds  for  such  supposition.  When  it 
was  first  printed,  in  1591,  Shakespeare  was  27  years  of  age,  and 
had  not  yet  come  into  notice.  But  in  1611,  when  the  play  was 
reprinted,  his  plays  were  in  great  demand,  both  on  the  stage  and 
in  print ;  and  the  bookseller,  it  may  be  supposed,  in  order  to  help 
the  sale,  slyly  put  "  written  by  W.  Sh."  on  the  title-page,  and  the 
bookseller  who  got  out  the  next  edition,  in  1622,  took  advantage 
of  this,  and  filled  out  the  name. 

Dr.  Ingleby,  in  his  "  Shakespeare,  the  Man  and  the  Book,"  Part 
2,  p.  190,  says  that  Shakespeare's  King  John  "is  the  result  of 
filling  in  a  skeleton  taken  from  the  '  Troublesome  Reign,'  some  of 
the  infilling  being  but  a  recast  or  revision  of  the  old  phraseology." 
This  does  not  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  relation  of  Shakespeare's 
play  to  the  old  play.  It  is  more  correct  to  say  that  Shakespeare 
went  to  the  old  play  for  his  history,  instead  of  going  to  Holinshed's 


wcm, 


l6o  KING   JOHN. 

"  Chronicles,"  whence,  it  appears,  he  derived  most  of  his  knowledge 
of  English  and  Scottish  history.  The  whole  life  and  spirit  of  his 
King  John  was  original  with  himself. 

The  old  play  was  written  in  the  service  of  the  Reformation,  the 
reign  of  King  John  affording  abundance  of  material,  when  moulded 
by  a  strong  partisan  spirit  (which  the  author,  whoever  he  was, 
certainly  had),  for  emphasizing  what  he  regarded  as  the  evils  of 
papal  rule,  and  its  antagonism  to  a  vital  nationality.  Its  violent 
partisan  spirit,  though  entirely  inconsistent  with  a  true  artistic 
spirit,  and  its  appeals  to  the  vulgar  antagonisms  of  the  ground- 
lings, must  have  secured  for  it  a  great  popularity  at  the  time  when 
it  first  appeared.  Of  this  violent  partisan  spirit  there's  not  a  trace 
in  Shakespeare's  play. 

In  the  old  play,  the  ransacking  of  the  monasteries  by  Faulcon- 
bridge  is  brought  dramatically  forward,  and  the  scene  in  which  it 
is  presented  is  the  most  scurrilous  in  the  play.  Philip  enters  lead- 
ing a  friar,  and  ordering  him  to  show  where  the  Abbot's  treasure 
lies.  The  poor  friar,  after  some  pathetic  entreaties,  shows  Philip 
the  Abbot's  chest, 

"  That  wanteth  not  a  thousand  pound 
In  silver  and  in  gold." 

Philip  commands,  "  Break  up  the  coffer,  Friar."  The  friar  does 
his  bidding,  and  fair  Alice,  the  nun,  is  found  in  the  chest,  who 
prays  Philip  to  spare  the  friar,  adding  that 

"  If  money  be  the  means  of  this, 

I  know  an  ancient  nun, 
That  hath  a  hoard  these  seven  years, 
Did  never  see  the  sun." 

A  not  very  elegant  colloquy  follows,  which  ends  with  Philip's 
ordering  the  nun  to  show  him  to  the  other  chest. 

"  Nun.   Fair  sir,  within  this  press,  of  plate  and  money  is 
The  value  of  a  thousand  marks,  and  other  things,  by  gis ; 
Let  us  alone,  and  take  it  all,  'tis  yours,  sir,  now  you  know  it." 


KING   JOHN.  l6l 

Philip  orders  the  friar  to  pick  the  lock.  The  result  is  that 
Friar  Laurence  is  found  within.  Another  not  very  elegant  collo- 
quy follows.  The  nun  cries  "  Peccavi,  parce  me."  A  friar  entreats 

Philip  : 

"  Absolve,  sir,  for  charity, 
She  would  be  reconciled. 

Phil.   And  so  I  shall :  sirs,  bind  them  fast, 
This  is  their  absolution, 
Go  hang  them  up  for  hurting  them,* 
Haste  them  to  execution." 

Then  the  poor  Friar  Laurence  interposes  a  speech,  interlarded 
with  very  bad  Latin.  He  concludes  : 

"  Exaudi  me,  Domine,  sivis  me  parce 
Dabo  pecuniam,  si  habeo  veniam. 
To  go  and  fetch  it,  I  will  dispatch  it, 
A  hundred  pounds  sterling,  for  my  life's  sparing." 

Now,  for  all  this  dramatization  of  the  ransacking  of  the  mon- 
asteries of  which  I've  given  the  merest  outline,  Shakespeare  sub- 
stituted four  lines  of  statement  only.  Cardinal  Pandulph,  the 
Pope's  legate,  in  his  speech  counselling  the  Dauphin  to  invade 

England,  says  : 

"  The  bastard  Faulconbridge 
Is  now  in  England,  ransacking  the  church, 
Offending  charity."  —  A.  III.  Sc.  iv.  171-173. 

And  in  the  2d  Scene  of  the  4th  Act,  the  Bastard  enters  to  King 
John,  and,  to  the  King's  inquiry,  "  Now,  what  says  the  world  to 
your  proceedings,"  replies, 

"  How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen, 
The  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express." 


*  For  hurting  them,  i.e.,  as  a  protection  against  hurting  them.  So  in 
Chaucer's  "Sir  Thopas,"  "an  habergeoun  for  percinge  of  his  herte,"  i.e.,  as 
a  protection  against  the  piercing  of  his  heart;  and  in  "  Piers  the  Plowman," 
Passus  VI.  62,  "  for  colde  of  my  nailles,"  as  a  remedy  against  cold  of  my 
nails;  Passus  I.  24,  "for  myseise,"  as  a  remedy  against  misease  or  discom- 
fort. 


1 62  KING   JOHN. 

One  other  example  must  be  given  of  Shakespeare's  suppression 
of  the  anti-Romish  spirit,  as  it's  exhibited  in  the  old  play.  In 
the  old  play,  the  repast  of  the  King,  in  the  garden  of  Swinstead 
abbey,  and  his  poisoning  by  a  monk,  with  the  connivance  of  his 
abbot,  are  dramatized.  The  monk  tasting  the  King's  drink,  with 
the  historic  cry  of  "Wassell,"  dies,  remarking  aside,  "If  the 
inwards  of  a  toad  be  a  compound  of  any  proof— why,  so:  it 
works."  The  Bastard  stabs  the  abbot,  and  the  King  dies  after 
some  long  and  very  strongly  anti-papal  speeches  in  which  he 
prophesies  that  out  of  his  loins  shall  spring  a  kingly  branch  whose 
arms  shall  reach  unto  the  gates  of  Rome,  and  with  his  feet  tread 
down  the  strumpet's  pride,  that  sits  upon  the  chair  of  Babylon. 

There's  nothing  of  all  this  in  Shakespeare's  play.  The  poison- 
ing of  the  King  is  simply  told  by  Hubert,  to  the  Bastard  in  A.  V. 
Sc.  vi.  To  the  Bastard's  inquiry  "  What's  the  news?"  Hubert 
replies  : 

*'  The  King  I  fear  is  poisoned  by  a  monk ; 
I  left  him  almost  speechless,  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  evil,  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time, 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  known  of  this." 

In  the  next  scene,  in  which  the  King  dies,  he  utters  not  a  word 
against  the  papacy. 

The  fierce  partisan  spirit  of  the  old  play  has  no  place  in  Shake- 
speare's. Shakespeare's  play  is  filled  throughout  with  the  spirit 
of  Elizabethan  England's  defiance  to  the  foreigner  and  the  Pope 
—  but  to  the  Pope  as  a  foreign  power,  rather  than  on  religious 
grounds.  That's  the  point  to  be  observed.  It  is  a  national, 
patriotic,  not  a  religious  spirit,  or  rather  not  a  religion  spirit  which 
informs  his  play.  He  understood  too  well  the  true  function  of 
dramatic  art,  to  make  religion,  whether  Roman  Catholic,  or  Prot- 
estant, or  any  other,  the  informing  spirit  of  his  play. 

The  speech  of  Faulconbridge  which  concludes  the  play,  voices 
the  spirit  of  the  whole  : 


KING   JOHN.  163 

"  This  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror, 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 
And  we  shall  shock  them.     Nought  shall  make  us  rue, 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true." 

This  speech  pronounced  on  the  stage,  as  it  no  doubt  was, 
within  seven  or  eight  years  after  the  destruction  of  the  Spanish 
Armada,  must  have  produced  a  powerful  effect,  intense  as  was 
then  the  sense  of  nationality. 

Commentators  have  gone  to  King  John  for  proof  that  Shake- 
speare was  a  Protestant.  It  might  be  shown,  by  other  plays,  with 
as  much  certainty,  that  he  was  a  good  Catholic.  But  it  cannot 
be  shown  that  he  was  either  one  or  the  other.  He  was  too  great 
an  artist  to  obtrude  his  own  personal  religious  belief.  One  thing 
is  quite  evident,  namely,  that  he  was  in  spirit  a  true  Christian  — 
so  true  a  Christian  that  he  was  perfectly  tolerant. 

I  have  said  that  Shakespeare  went  to  "  The  Troublesome  Raigne  " 
for  his  history,  in  the  composition  of  King  John,  and  not  to  Hol- 
inshed's  "Chronicles."  His  play  turns  on  what  is  entirely  unhistori- 
cal ;  or,  if  not  entirely  unhistorical,  on  what  went  for  nothing  with 
John's  barons,  namely,  the  defect  of  his  title  to  the  crown,  and 
the  exclusion  of  the  rightful  heir,  his  elder  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur,  and  the  supposed  murder  of  that  son,  in  order  to  maintain 
unsurped  power. 

Shakespeare's  opening  scenes  must  always  receive  special  atten- 
tion, in  studying  the  dramatic  action  of  his  Plays,  as  in  them  the 
keynote  of  the  whole  action  is  usually  and  distinctly  struck. 

In  the  first  43  lines  of  King  John,  the  entire  action  of  the  play 
is  presented  in  germ. 

"  Enter  KING  JOHN,  QUEEN  ELINOR,  PEMBROKE,  ESSEX,  SALISBURY, 
and  others,  with  CHATILLON. 

K.  John.  Now  say,  Chatillon,  what  would  France  with  us? 
Chat.    Thus,  after  greeting,  speaks  the  king  of  France, 


1 64  KING  JOHN. 

In  my  behaviour,  to  the  majesty, 

The  borrowed  majesty,  of  England  here. 

Eli.   A  strange  beginning ;  —  borrow'd  majesty ! 

K.  John.   Silence,  good  mother ;  hear  the  embassy. 

Chat.   Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true  behalf 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagenet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories ; 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine : 
Desiring  thee  to  lay  aside  the  sword, 
Which  sways  usurpingly  these  several  titles ; 
And  put  the  same  into  young  Arthur's  hand, 
Thy  nephew  and  right  royal  sovereign. 

K.  John.   What  follows  if  we  disallow  of  this  ? 

Chat.   The  proud  control  of  fierce  and  bloody  war, 
To  enforce  these  rights  so  forcibly  withheld. 

K.  John.   Here  have  we  war  for  war  and  blood  for  blood, 
Controlment  for  controlment ;  so  answer  France. 

Chat.   Then  take  my  king's  defiance  from  my  mouth, 
The  farthest  limit  of  my  embassy. 

K.  John.   Bear  mine  to  him,  and  so  depart  in  peace : 
Be  thou  as  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France  ; 
For  ere  thou  canst  report  I  will  be  there, 
The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  be  heard : 
So,  hence !     Be  thou  the  trumpet  of  our  wrath, 
And  sullen  presage  of  your  own  decay. 
An  honourable  conduct  let  him  have :  — 
Pembroke,  look  to't:  Farewell,  Chatillon. 

[Exeunt  CHATILLON  and  PEMBROKE. 

Eli.   What  now,  my  son?  have  I  not  ever  said, 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease, 
Till  she  had  kindled  France  and  all  the  world, 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ? 
This  might  have  been  prevented,  and  made  whole, 
With  very  easy  arguments  of  love ; 
Which  now  the  manage  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

K.  John.   Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right  for  us. 

Eli.   Your  strong  possession  much  more  than  your  right ; 


KING  JOHN.  165 

Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you  and  me : 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear ; 
Which  none  but  Heaven,  and  you,  and  I  shall  hear.'' 

We  have  seen  that  the  Play  on  its  political  side  quite  ignores  the 
facts  of  history.  So,  on  the  personal  side,  there  is  an  ignoring,  to 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  of  the  characters,  as  represented  by  his- 
tory, of  some  of  the  dramatis  personae  ;  and  this  is  especially  so  in 
the  case  of  Constance  and  Arthur,  who  must  be  estimated  inde- 
pendently of  history,  and  almost  as  purely  fictitious.  We  must 
not  inquire  of  history  what  manner  of  woman  Constance  was — we 
must  consider  exclusively  what  she  is  in  the  play.  And  the  same 
may  be  said  of  Arthur.  Again,  as  I  read  the  play,  I  see  a  purpose 
throughout  to  intensify  the  injustice,  and  crime,  and  baseness  of 
John's  usurpation,  through  the  characters  given  to  Constance  and 
Arthur.  In  the  First  Scene,  11.  31-34,  Elinor  says  of  Constance  : 

"  What  now,  my  son  ?  have  I  not  ever  said 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease, 
Till  she  had  kindled  France  and  all  the  world, 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ?  " 

And  in  A.  II.  Sc.  i.  117,  when  King  John  says  to  King  Philip  of 
France, 

"  Alack !  thou  dost  usurp  authority," 
and  Philip  replies, 

"  Excuse,  it  is  to  beat  usurping  down," 
Elinor  interposes, 

"  Who  is  it  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France  ?" 
To  which  question  Constance  replies, 

"  Let  me  make  answer,  —  thy  usurping  son." 

And  then  Elinor  flings  at  her  charges  of  adultery  and  guilty 
ambition,  which  she  knows  to  be  false  : 

"  Out,  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king, 
That  thou  mayst  be  a  queen  and  check  the  world  ! " 


1 66  KING  JOHN. 

These  words  have,  I  think,  misled  many  commentators ;  and 
they  have  made  ambition  the  ruling  motive  of  Constance. 

It  is  not  safe  to  take  the  opinions  which  hostile  characters  in 
Shakespeare's  Plays,  and  sometimes  characters  which  are  not  hos- 
tile, are  made  to  express  of  each  other,  as  opinions  which  must  go 
for  anything  in  our  estimation  of  the  characters ;  quite  as  unsafe 
as  it  sometimes  is  in  real  life  to  judge  of  people  by  what  we  hear 
others  say  of  them.  In  Shakespeare's  Plays,  what  characters  say 
must  often  be  taken  as  representing  themselves  rather  than  others. 
This  is  especially  true  in  the  case  of  Elinor.  We  don't  learn  what 
others  are  from  what  she  says  of  them  ;  we  certainly  don't  learn 
what  manner  of  woman  Constance  really  is ;  but  we  learn  a  great 
deal  of  what  she  is. 

It  will  be  shown  in  the  chapters  on  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth, 
that  even  what  Lady  Macbeth  says  of  her  husband,  in  the  speech 
she  utters,  after  reading  his  letter  informing  her  of  his  having  been 
saluted  by  the  witches,  "Hail,  king  that  shalt  be,"  indicates  a 
wrong  estimate  of  him,  and  that  that  wrong  estimate  she  herself  is 
made  aware  of,  further  on  in  the  play.  She  gets  new  knowledge 
of  him  after  he  has  "  done  the  deed  "  and  become  King.  But 
upon  this  speech  of  Lady  Macbeth,  much  false  interpretation  of 
Macbeth's  character  has  been  based ;  and  much  false  interpreta- 
tion has  been  reflected  from  it  upon  herself.  But  I  do  not  mean, 
of  course,  to  say  that  we  must  never  take  the  opinions  of  other 
characters  into  our  estimates  of  particular  characters ;  for  Shake- 
speare often  makes  the  speeches  of  other  characters  reveal  a  char- 
acter as  distinctly  as  it  is  revealed  by  what  that  character  says  and 
does  in  his  or  her  own  person.  Such  speeches  emphasize  it,  so 
to  speak.  This  is  especially  the  case  in  The  Winter's  Tale, 
where  our  estimation  of  the  noble  Hermione  is  deepened  by  the 
opinions  expressed  of  her  by  all  about  the  Court.  What  I  would 
say,  is,  that  we  must  be  careful,  and  not  make  hasty  inferences 
from  the  speeches  of  other  characters,  in  regard  to  any  particular 
character,  and  must  test  the  reliableness  of  those  speeches  by 
what  that  particular  character  is  made  to  say  and  do. 


KING  JOHN.  167 

To  continue  this  digression  a  little  further :  when  we  apply 
this  rule  to  Macbeth,  I  think  we  must  come  to  the  conclusion, 
after  tracing  his  career  from  beginning  to  end,  that  he  was  not,  as 
Lady  Macbeth  represents  him,  "  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  to  catch  the  nearest  way  " ;  that  he  was  not  "  without 
the  illness  which  should  attend  ambition  " ;  that  what  he  "  would 
highly,"  he  would  not  "  holily,"  if  it  were  necessary ;  that  he 
would  "  play  false,"  as  well  as  "  wrongly  win."  And  that  Lady 
Macbeth  discovered  her  mistake,  in  regard  to  the  real  character 
of  her  husband,  is  afterwards  made  as  clear  as  her  own  words  and 
acts  can  make  it ;  and,  in  consequence  of  that  discovery,  remorse, 
which  had  been  held  in  abeyance  while  her  ambition,  which  was 
chiefly  for  him  (as  I  shall  show),  was  predominant,  got  full  sway, 
and  she  sank  under  it.  Shakespeare  knew  that  "Nemo  repente 
fuit  turpissimus"  and  he  knew,  too,  that  wives  sometimes  over- 
estimate and  sometimes  underestimate,  their  husbands,  just  as 
they  do  now. 

No  careful  reader  of  the  play  of  King  John,  will,  I  am  assured, 
take  Elinor's  accusations  as  at  all  representing  the  poet's  dramatic 
purpose  in  Constance.  The  old  Elinor  is  the  political  genius  and 
guide  of  her  son  John,  "  an  Ate,  stirring  him  to  blood  and  strife," 
as  Chatillon  describes  her  in  the  play  (A.  II.  Sc.  i.  63),  and  we  must 
not  look  for  the  truth  from  her,  in  regard  to  Constance,  whom  she 
charges  with  seeking  the  throne  for  her  son,  only  with  the  ambi- 
tious design  of  ruling  herself  and  kindling  all  the  world.  But 
what  Constance  says  of  Elinor  (A.  II.  S.  i.  174-190),  we  can  take 
as  the  truth  in  regard  to  the  old  queen  mother. 

What  Ulrici  says  of  Constance  and  Arthur  is  wide  of  the  mark. 
I  don't  find  in  this  German  critic  much  evidence  of  insight  into 
Shakespeare's  dramatic  motives,  though  he  has  ranked  high  as  a 
Shakespearian  critic.  This  is  what  he  says,  and  all  that  he  says : 

"As  to  the  fortunes  of  Constance  and  Arthur,  although  they 
are  primarily  but  an  episode  in  the  life  and  character  of  John 
[that  is  not  correct,  for  they  constitute  an  inseparable  part  of  the 
main  action],  yet  it  is  with  great  significance  that  they  appear  to 


1 68  KING  JOHN. 

be  thus  interwoven  with  the  history  of  the  state.  The  instruction 
they  furnish  forms  a  pendant  to  the  general  lesson  of  the  piece ; 
ach  us  [Ulrici's  interest  is  always  directed  to  the  didactic, 
in  a  play,  rather  than  to  the  dramatic  action],  for  they  teach  us 
that  nothing  in  history  more  invariably  meets  its  due  punishment 
than  weakness  and  passion  —  those  hereditary  J<i /////•/ ,  ///  ////•  /smalt 
character.  Women  ought  not  to  interfere  in  history,  for  history 
demands  action,  and  for  that  they  are  constitution,! lly  disqualified." 

It's  a  pity  Ulrici  could  not  have  had  a  John  Ruskin  to  te.-u.h 
him  what  he  sets  forth,  somewhat  strongly,  to  be  sure,  in  his 
*'  Sesame  and  Lilies,"  in  regard  to  Shakespeare's  heroines.  Ulrici 
goes  on : 

"The  haste  and  impatience  with  which  Constance  labor,  to 
establish  her  son's  rights  .  .  .  justly  involves  him  as  well  as  herself 
in  ruin.  Arthur,  therefore,  although  preserved  by  tint  compassion 
of  Hubert,  mil  st  ncvei thHe  ss  pen  sh.  Mad  hi:,  mother  but  hud  the 

prudence  to  wait  until  he  could  himself  have  asserted  his  own 
rights  by  hr.  o-.vu  .inn,  and  luhen  alone  he  could  have  possessed  a 
perfect  title,  he  could  have  gained  for  himself  and  her  what  law- 
fully belonged  to  them." 

Constance  labors,  he  says,  to  establish  her  son's  rights.  But  the 
play  throughout  assumes  that  those  rights  arr  established;  and 
t.he  point,  upon  whi<  h  the  whole  pl;i.y  turn,  i  ,,  th;il.  her  son  has 
be*-n  unjustly  drpnv<-;l  of  them.  In  history,  Arthur's  rights  were 
not  established,  and  John  was  not  regarded  by  his  di.ai: 
barons  in  the  light  of  a  usurper,  but  ol  a  tyi.mt.  \\\\\  the  «  nti< 
of  Shakespeare's  play  has  nothing  to  do  with  authenh<  hiftory  ; 
he  htU  to  do  with  the  pluy,  in  itself  considered.  What,  are  the 
poet'fl  postulates  and  assumptions,  is  the  (|u.-,iion  to  be 
MUM  i e peats  the  same  mistake  fmthej  on  in  the  puMge  I've 
quoted  :  "  If  Arthur's  mother  had  had  th  •  good  sense  to  wait 

until  h'-  <  01 1  Id  I  n  i  use)  |  h:iv  a  s  s--i  ted  his  own  ri^lits  by  his  own  arm, 
ami  -h'ln-H  tf/c/tr  In'  uniltl  Inri't'  pOMtMtd  "  /"'>/<'</  /////',"  et<  . 

Sn<  h  <  nil'  i  ,in  a  ,  thai  is  «n  a  level  with  GrUStAV  I '  uni'-lin'  ,,  •  -n 
|-'«iiii'-'i  and  Juliet,  in  his  *'  Shal:-  ,p«-are  ,lu'li'-n,"  vvliK  h  I  may  <  ite 


KING  JOHN.  169 

here  as,  along  with  Ulrici's  on  King  John,  a  good  specimen  of  a 
species  of  criticism  which  interests  itself  in  everything  in  a  play 
of  Shakespeare,  except  its  own  independent  dramatic  vitality. 

Riimelin  says  :  "Why  does  not  Juliet  simply  confess  that  she  is 
married  already,  and  confront  the  consequences  with  the  heroism 
of  her  love  ?  Why  does  she  not  flee  ?  She  comes  and  goes  un- 
hindered, and  even  the  Friar's  plan  accomplished  no  more  than 
that  instead  of  starting  for  Mantua  from  her  father's  house,  she 
would  have  to  start  from  the  neighboring  churchyard.  Why  does 
she  not  feign  sickness?  Why  is  not  Paris  induced  to  withdraw  by 
being  informed  that  Juliet  is  already  wedded  to  another?  Why 
does  not  the  pious  Father  fall  back  upon  the  obvious  excuse  that 
as  a  Christian  priest  he  would  not  marry  a  woman  while  her  first 
husband  was  still  living?"  etc.,  etc. 

Verily,  there  is  not  evident  in  such  criticism,  "  that  God-given 
power  vouchsafed  to  us  Germans  alone  before  all  other  nations," 
to  use  Professor  Lemcke's  expression,  in  his  boastful  assertion  of 
the  superiority  of  German  Shakespearian  criticism  to  all  others  in 
the  world. 

These,  it  is  true,  are  not,  by  any  means,  (air  specimens  of  Ger- 
man criticism.  Yet,  we  must  remember,  that  Ulrici  has  ranked 
high  among  Shakespearian  critics  in  r.ermany.  and  that  his  "  I'cbci 
Shakespeare's  dramatische  Kunst  u.  sein  Yerhaltniss  /u  C'alderon 
u.  Cioethe,"  first  published  in  Halle,  in  iS^o.  \vas  held,  and  is  still 
held,  in  high  estimation. 

Of  Constance,  Gervinus  says  :  "  Ambition  spurred  by  maternal 
love,  maternal  love  goaded  by  ambition  and  womanly  vanity,  these 
form  the  distinguishing  features  of  this  character,  features  out  of 
which,  from  the  adversity  of  fate,  that  raging  passion  is  developed, 
which  at  last  shatters  the  soul  and  body  of  the  frail  woman." 
Kurther  on  he  speaks  of  "her  coarse  outbursts  against  Elinor"; 
and  represents  her  as  "  the  female  counterpart  to  Richard  II.,  who, 
imperious  in  prosperity,  was  speedily  lost  in  adversity";  "she 
plays  with  her  sorrow  in  ic'i//v  words  and  similes"  ;  "the  vw/rnt- 
na fared  \voman  bursts  forth  with  scornful  hatred  against  Austria, 
after  he  has  become  faithless." 


I/O  KING   JOHN. 

Is  this  the  Constance  as  she  is  understood  by  the  unphilosophi- 
cal  but  sympathetic  reader,  with  no  critical  theories  to  maintain? 
I  think  not. 

The  play,  let  me  repeat,  turns  upon  the  usurpation  of  John  and 
the  consequent  murder  of  Arthur,  the  rightful  heir.  The  usurpa- 
tion is  assumed — the  validity  of  Arthur's  title  to  the  crown  is 
assumed,  and  this  assumption  on  the  part  of  the  dramatist  must 
not  be  lost  sight  of,  authentic  history  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing. It  cannot  then  be  said  that  Constance  is  ambitious  for  the 
crown,  either  for  her  son's  sake  or  for  her  own  sake.  What  she 
claims  and  contends  for,  and  agonizes  for,  is  her  son's  rights,  of 
which  he  has  been  basely  deprived.  Even  the  queen  mother, 
Elinor,  is  made,  as  we  have  seen,  to  express  to  John  her  sense 
of  the  usurpation,  in  the  opening  scene,  after  Chatillon,  the  am- 
bassador from  Philip  of  France,  has  gone  from  the  royal  presence. 
What  she  afterwards  says  to  Constance  should  go  for  nothing  in 
the  case.  She  says  what  she  does  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Faulconbridge  adheres  firmly  to  John  throughout  the  play ;  but 
he  is  made  to  reveal,  very  distinctly,  in  his  speeches,  his  secret 
sense  of  the  injustice  done  to  Arthur.  He  knows  that  John  is  a 
usurper ;  he  knows  that  he  is  compounded  of  baseness,  injustice, 
and  treachery ;  but  so  long  as  he  has  possession  of  the  throne, 
whether  that  possession  be  just  or  unjust,  he  is  to  him  the  imper- 
sonation of  the  state,  to  whom  loyalty  is  due. 

Shakespeare,  it  is  evident,  made  Faulconbridge  voice  the  feel- 
ings of  the  English  people,  in  his  own  time,  against  foreign  inter- 
ference in  church  and  state.  The  speeches  in  which  he  gives 
expression  to  the  "  self-dependent  life  and  self-sufficing  strength 
inherent  in  the  nation,"  must  have  been  particularly  agreeable  to 
the  audiences  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  the  attempt  made  but  seven 
or  eight  years  before,  by  the  then  richest  and  mightiest  of  Euro- 
pean powers,  to  invade  England  and  impose  upon  her  the  Roman 
Catholic  religion,  having  resulted  in  one  of  the  most  disastrous 
defeats  in  all  history. 

To  return  to  Constance  and  Arthur  :  Constance  appears  only  in 


KING   JOHN.  I/I 

A.  II.  Sc.  i.  and  A.  III.  Sc.  i.  and  iv.  Arthur  appears  in  A.  II.  Sc. 
i.,  A.  III.  Sc.  i.,  ii.,  and  Hi.,  A.  IV.  Sc.  i.  and  iii.  These  scenes 
evidence  with  an  entire  conclusiveness,  I  think,  that  Shakespeare's 
dramatic  purpose  in  Constance  was  to  exhibit  outraged  mater- 
nal affection,  independently  of  any  ambition  on  her  part.  For 
her  to  show  personal  ambition  for  the  crown,  would  mar  the 
artistic  symmetry  and  the  whole  moral  tone  of  the  play.  We 
shall  see  that  there  is  not  a  single  speech  of  hers  which  indicates 
directly  or  by  implication,  any  personal  ambition.  She  is  "op- 
pressed with  wrongs "  done  to  her  beloved  Arthur,  whom  the 
poet,  in  the  service  of  his  art,  represents  as  possessing  all  those 
charms  of  person  and  all  those  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  which 
intensify  a  mother's  affection  and  devotion. 

In  comparing  Shakespeare's  Arthur  with  the  Arthur  of  the  old 
play,  we  can  easily  see  the  dramatic  purpose  which  determined 
the  poet  in  making  him  what  he  does.  And  Augustine  Skottowe 
well  remarks  :  "  The  maternal  distress  of  Constance,  in  the  old 
play,  is  clamorous  and  passionate,  vindictive  and  contumelious. 
The  hand  of  Shakespeare  tempered  her  rage  into  vehemence, 
attuned  her  clamour  to  eloquence,  and  modulated  her  coarse 
vindictiveness  into  a  deep  sense  of  gross  injuries  and  unde- 
served misfortunes." 

From  the  accounts  we  have  of  Mrs.  Siddons's  impersonation  of 
Constance,  it  appears  that  she  made  strong-willed  ambition  her 
ruling  motive,  rather  than  maternal  affection.  The  impersona- 
tion, in  the  last  generation,  by  Miss  Helen  Faucit,  now  Lady 
Martin,  the  wife  of  Sir  Theodore  Martin,  the  biographer  of  the 
Prince  Consort,  appears  to  have  been  a  truer  one  than  that  of 
Mrs.  Siddons.  From  the  dramatic  criticism  of  the  time  (1843  and 
later)  we  learn  that  maternal  tenderness  and  affection  alone  mo- 
tived and  informed  her  impersonation. 

The  situation  in  A.  III.  Sc.  i.,  which  has  been  led  up  to  by  the 
marriage  of  the  Dauphin  and  Blanch,  is,  perhaps,  unsurpassed  as 
a  dramatic  situation,  in  all  Shakespeare.  To  Constance,  when, 
deserted  and  betrayed,  she  stands  alone  in  her  despair,  amid  her 


1/2  KING  JOHN. 

false  friends  and  her  ruthless  enemies,  Mrs.  Jameson  applies,  most 
appropriately,  the  image  of  the  mother  eagle,  wounded  and  bleed- 
ing to  death,  yet  stretched  over  her  young  in  an  attitude  of  de- 
fiance, while  all  the  baser  birds  of  prey  are  clamoring  around  her 
eyrie.  The  noble  Bastard,  whose  heart  seems  to  be  always  in  the 
right  place,  feels  deeply  the  injustice  of  the  act  of  the  two  kings : 

"  Mad  world !  mad  kings !  mad  composition ! 
John,  to  stop  Arthur's  title  in  the  whole, 
Hath  willingly  departed  with  a  part, 
And  France,  whose  armour  conscience  buckled  on, 
Whom  zeal  and  charity  brought  to  the  field 
As  God's  own  soldier,  rounded  *  in  the  ear 
With  that  same  purpose-changer,  that  sly  devil, 
That  broker,  that  still  breaks  the  pate  of  faith, 
That  daily  break-vow,  he  that  wins  of  all, 
Of  kings,  of  beggars,  old  men,  young  men,  maids,  .  .  . 
That  smooth-faced  gentleman,  tickling  Commodity, 
Commodity,  f  the  bias  of  the  world,"  etc. 

There's  a  sort  of  reflex  action  induced  in  his  mind,  which  causes 
him  to  slander  himself.  After  representing  self-interest  as  the  bias 
of  the  world,  he  continues  : 

"  And  why  rail  I  on  this  Commodity  ? 
But  for  because  he  hath  not  woo'd  me  yet : 
******** 
Well,  whiles  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail 
And  say  there  is  no  sin  but  to  be  rich ; 
And  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be 
To  say  there  is  no  vice  but  beggary. 
Since  kings  break  faith  upon  Commodity, 
Gain  be  my  lord,  for  I  will  worship  thee." 

All  this  is  pure  self- slander,  as  his  subsequent  disinterested  and 
magnanimous  acts  and  words  show. 


whispered.  f  Profit,  self-interest. 


KING  JOHN.  173 

The  league  entered  into  by  the  two  kings  (first  proposed  by  the 
besieged  citizens  of  Angiers),  A.  II.  Sc.  i.,  is  severed  by  Pandulph, 
the  Pope's  legate,  who  demands  of  John,  why,  against  the  authority 
of  the  Church,  he  keeps  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see.  To  this  demand  John  returns  a 
defiant  answer  (A.  III.  Sc.  i.  147-160).  The  legate,  thereupon,  by 
the  power  that  he  has,  declares  him  "  curs'd  and  excommunicate," 
and  commands  Philip,  on  peril  of  a  curse,  to  let  go  the  hand  of 
the  arch-heretic,  and  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head,  un- 
less he  submit  himself  to  Rome.  The  consequence  is,  that  Philip, 
after  begging  the  Cardinal,  under  the  circumstances,  to  devise 
some  other  means,  and  after  being  entreated  by  Constance,  Austria, 
and  Lewis,  to  submit  to  the  Cardinal,  and  by  Elinor  and  Blanch, 
to  stand  fast,  falls  off  from  John  (though  he  is  manifestly  not  con- 
vinced by  the  argument  of  the  legate  that  it  is  his  duty  to  do  so), 
and  hostilities  are  resumed.  The  French  forces  are  worsted ;  they 
lose  Angiers,  and  Arthur  is  taken  prisoner  by  John,  and  conveyed 
to  England.  This  gives  a  turn  to,  and  complicates,  things  at  home 
which  will  prove  fatal  to  John.  He  is  now  forced,  by  circum- 
stances resulting  from  the  capture  of  Arthur,  to  play  a  losing  game 
within  his  own  kingdom.  His  fears  as  to  the  young  and  interest- 
ing captive,  whose  misfortune  wins  the  sympathies  of  the  courtiers 
and  the  people,  drive  him  to  measures  for  his  own  safety  which 
deprive  him  of  all  chance  of  safety.  He  passes,  irresistibly,  into 
the  power  of  an  avenging  fate.  The  dramatic  situation,  at  this 
stage  of  the  play,  is  in  Shakespeare's  best  tragic  manner.  The 
moral  baseness  of  John,  which  seals  his  doom,  may  be  said 
to  be  gathered  up,  and  exhibited  in  its  extreme  intensity,  in  the 
scene  with  Hubert,  the  3d  of  the  3d  Act,  in  which  he  intimates  to 
Hubert  his  wish  to  have  the  little  prince  put  out  of  the  way :  and 
in  the  2d  Scene  of  the  4th  Act,  where  he  accuses  the  aptness  of 
the  instrument  as  the  cause  of  the  suggestion.  I  would  call  special 
attention  to  the  last  19  verses  of  John's  long  speech  (A.  III.  Sc.  iii. 
30-50),  beginning,  "  If  the  midnight  bell."  The  thought  keeps 
on  the  wing  through  all  these  19  verses.  There  is  a  moral  signifi- 


1/4  KWG  JOHN. 

cance  in  the  suspended  construction  of  the  language.  The  mind 
of  the  dastard  king  hovers  over  the  subject  of  the  ungodly  act  and 
dares  not  alight  upon  it ;  and  the  verse,  in  its  uncadenced  move- 
ment, admirably  registers  the  speaker's  state  of  mind : 

"If  the  midnight  bell 

Did,  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  race  of  night ; 
If  this  same  were  a  church-yard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs, 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy, 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood  and  made  it  heavy,  thick, 
Which  else  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins, 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes, 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes, 
Or  if  that  thou  could  see  me  without  eyes, 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone, 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words ; 
Then,  in  despite  of  brooded  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts ; 
But,  ah,  I  will  not !  yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 

The  loveliness  of  Arthur  is  the  most  fully  exhibited  in  the  scene 
with  Hubert,  the  ist  of  the  4th  Act,  where  he  entreats  Hubert  to 
spare  his  eyes.  The  pathos  of  the  situation  is  pushed  to  the  verge 
of  the  painful.  The  highest  art  was  demanded  here  to  keep  the 
treatment  of  the  subject  within  the  domain  of  the  beautiful.  And 
it  is  so  kept. 

I  need  not  trace  the  dramatic  action  further.  From  the  point 
reached,  to  the  end,  there  are  no  new  movements.  King  John  is 
now  in  a  current  which  he  cannot  stem,  and  will  be  swept  help- 
lessly along  to  the  bitter  end. 

Shakespeare  is  always  true  to  the  fatality  of  overmastering  pas- 
sion of  every  kind.  To  the  extent  that  his  characters  forfeit  the 


KING  JOHN.  175 

power  of  self-assertion,  do  they  become  subject  to  fate,  and  are 
swept  along  by  circumstances.  This,  of  course,  is  a  universal,  an 
obvious,  a  self-evident,  truth ;  but  it  is  a  truth  which  the  inferior 
sort  of  dramatists  do  not  always  observe,  in  their  treatment  of 
great  passions,  and  their  work  is,  in  consequence,  wanting  in 
moral  proportion. 

The  dramatists  of  the  Restoration  period  do  not  observe  it; 
and  whatever  mechanical  symmetry  they  attain  to,  in  their  plays, 
true  moral  proportion  is  wanting.  The  dramatic  criticism  of  that 
period,  Rymer's,  for  example,  shows  that  the  moral  proportion  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  was  but  little  recognized.  This  is  shown,  too, 
by  the  rifacimenti  of  some  of  his  plays  which  were  perpetrated 
by  Dryden,  Davenant,  Tate,  and  others.  Tate's  Lear  is  a  signal 
example.  Poetic  justice  meant  something  other  with  these  dra- 
matic carpenters,  than  the  justly  poetic. 


1/6  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


MUCH    ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  appeared  for  the  first 
time,  in  4  to,  in  1600,  with  the  following  title:  "Much 
adoe  about  Nothing.  As  it  hath  been  sundrie  times  publikely 
acted  by  the  right  honourable,  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  ser- 
uants.  Written  by  William  Shakespeare.  London.  Printed  by 
V.  S.  for  Andrew  Wise,  and  William  Aspley.  1600." 

The  word  "nothing"  appears  to  have  been  pronounced  in 
Shakespeare's  day,  "noting";  and  in  A.  II.  Sc.  iii.  57,  there's  a 
play  on  the  two  words.  Balthasar  says  : 

"Note  this  before  my  notes ; 
There's  not  a  note  of  mine  that's  worth  the  noting." 

To  which  Don  Pedro  replies  : 

"  Why,  these  are  very  crotchets  that  he  speaks ; 
Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  nothing." 

The  last  word  was  changed  by  Theobald  to  "  noting." 
Richard  Grant  White  sees  the  same  pun  in  the  title  of  the  play. 
"The  play  is  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  he  says,  "  only  in  a  very 
vague  and  general  sense,  but  Much  Ado  about  Noting  in  one  es- 
pecially apt  and  descriptive  ;  for  the  much  ado  is  produced  entirely 
by  noting.  It  begins  with  the  noting  of  the  Prince  and  Claudio, 
first  by  Antonio's  man,  and  then  by  Borachio,  who  reveals  their 
confidence  to  John ;  it  goes  on  with  Benedick  noting  the  Prince, 
Leonato,  and  Claudio,  in  the  garden,  and  again  with  Beatrice 
noting  Margaret  and  Ursula  in  the  same  place ;  the  incident  upon 
which  its  action  turns  is  the  noting  of  Borachio's  interview  with 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

Margaret  by  the  Prince  and  Claudio ;  and,  finally,  the  incident 
which  reveals  the  plot  is  the  noting  of  Borachio  and  Conrade  by 
the  Watch."  This  interpretation  is  quite  ingenious,  if  nothing 
more  can  be  said  of  it.  It  should  be  added,  that  the  mis-noting 
of  Benedick  by  Beatrice,  and  of  Beatrice  by  Benedick,  is  the  occa- 
sion of  the  predominant  comic  feature  of  the  play.  The  comedy, 
indeed,  turns  upon  this  mis-noting. 

Shakespeare  has,  evidently,  repeated  this  pun  in  The  Winter's 
Tale,  A.  IV.  Sc.  iv.  626.  Autolycus,  speaking  of  the  easy  success 
of  his  knavery,  says,  "  I  could  have  filed  keys  off  that  hung  in 
chains  :  no  hearing,  no  feeling,  but  my  sir's  song,  and  admiring  the 
nothing  of  it." 

But  see  Ellis's  "Early  English  Pronunciation,"  pp.  966-973, 
inclusive,  where  Richard  Grant  White's  Elizabethan  Pronun- 
ciation is  presented.  See  especially  on  p.  971,  ist  col.,  Ellis's 
opinion  of  the  pun  which  White  sees  in  the  title  of  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing.  The  objections  advanced  by  Ellis  are  not  conclu- 
sive, especially  the  following :  "  Mr.  White  seeks  to  establish  this 
[/.*.,  the  pun  in  the  title  of  the  play]  by  a  wonderfully  prosaic 
summary  of  instances,  all  the  while  forgetting  the  antithesis  of 
much  and  nothing,  on  which  the  title  is  founded,  with  an  allusion 
to  the  great  confusion  occasioned  by  a  slight  mistake  —  of  Ursula 
for  Hero  —  which  was  a  mere  nothing  in  itself.  The  Germans  in 
translating  it,  Viel  Larm  um  Nichts,  certainly  never  felt  Mr. 
White's  difficulty." 

The  last  sentence,  especially,  doesn't  strike  me  as  particularly 
forcible. 

The  1600  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  is  one  of  the  most  correctly 
printed  of  the  quarto  editions  of  the  Plays.  There  is  no  other 
quarto  edition,  so  far  as  is  known,  previous  to  the  publication  of 
the  First  Folio,  1623.  The  text  of  the  play,  in  the  Folio,  appears 
to  have  been  taken  from  the  Quarto.  Some  stage  directions  of 
interest  occur  first  in  the  Folio,  but  as  regards  the  text,  where  the 
Folio  differs  from  the  Quarto,  it  differs,  according  to  the  opinion 
of  the  "  Cambridge  "  editors,  almost  always  for  the  worse.  Those 


1/8  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

editors,  however,  have  a  peculiar  partiality  for  the  quarto  editions. 
But  the  differences  are  but  slight,  and  the  text  of  the  play  has, 
accordingly,  presented  but  little  difficulty  to  editors.  O  si  sic 
omnes  ! 

The  date  of  composition  is  put,  with  almost  absolute  certainty, 
in  1599,  when  Shakespeare  was  35  years  old. 

The  play  appears  to  have  been  a  great  favorite  in  Shakespeare's 
own  day.  Leonard  Digges  (the  same  who  wrote  the  verses  pre- 
fixed to  the  First  Folio),  in  his  verses  prefixed  to  the  1640  edition 
of  Shakespeare's  Poems,  mentions  this  play,  along  with  three  or 
four  others,  as  especially  attractive  to  the  frequenters  of  the 
theatre. 

"  So  have  I  scene,  when  Caesar  would  appeare, 
And  on  the  Stage  at  halfe-sword  parley  were 
Brutus  and  Cassms :  oh  how  the  Audience 
Were  ravish'd,  with  what  wonder  they  went  thence, 
When  some  new  day  they  would  not  brooke  a  line 
Of  tedious  (though  well  laboured)  Catiline;  * 
Sejanus  *  too  was  irkesome,  they  priz'de  more 
Honest  lago,  or  the  jealous  Moore. 
And  though  the  Fox  *  and  subtill  Alchimist,* 
Long  intermitted,  could  not  quite  be  mist, 
Though  these  have  sham'd  all  the  Ancients,  and  might  raise 
Their  Authours  merit  with  a  crowne  of  Bayes, 
Yet  these  sometimes,  even  at  a  friends  desire 
Acted,  have  scarce  defraid  the  Seacole  fire 
And  doore-keepers :  when  let  but  Falstaffe  come, 
Hall,  Pomes,  the  rest,  you  scarce  shall  have  a  roome, 
All  is  so  pester'd :  f  let  but  Beatrice 
And  Benedicke  be  scene,  loe  in  a  trice 
The  Cockpit,  Galleries,  Boxes,  all  are  full." 

This  is  interesting  contemporary  testimony  to  the  popularity  of 
the  play,  and  also  to  that  of  other  plays  of  Shakespeare  over  Ben 
Jonson's  best  plays. 


*  Plays  by  Ben  Jonson.  fjammcd. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  1/9 

\When  we  turn  to  the  old  stories  upon  which  Shakespeare  based 
his  plays,  we  get,  perhaps,  a  deeper  impression  of  his  essential 
originality  than  we  should  were  the  plots  wholly  his  own,  what- 
ever might  be  their  merits  as  plots.  We  are  brought,  in  this  way, 
to  a  deeper  sense  of  the  workings  of  the  inner  spirit  which  sub- 
jected all  its  appropriations  to  its  own  creative  purpose.  We  see 
that  the  work  grew  from  what  the  workman  had  within  himself, 
and  not  merely  from  following  what  others  had  done  before  him. 
4Ve  see  that  the  old  story  has  been  less  worked  into,  than  em- 
ployed as  the  scaffolding  of,  his  dramatic  structure.  A  signal 
illustration  of  this  is  afforded  by  The  Winter's  Tale.  Any  one  who 
has  read  this  play  with  an  adequate  appreciation  of  its  dramatic 
merits,  must,  on  turning  to  the  novel  on  which  it  was  founded 
("  Pandosto,  or  the  Triumph  of  Time,"  otherwise  called  "  Doras- 
tus  and  Fawnia,"  by  Robert  Greene),  be  struck  with  the  admirable 
manner  in  which  the  poet  has  converted  materials  supplied  by 
another  to  his  own  higher  purposes.  The  bare  outline,  even,  of 
the  story,  he  does  not  follow  very  closely.  We  may  say  that  he 
follows  it  where  the  propulsion  of  his  own  thought  and  feeling 
bears  him  along  in  his  work  parallel  with  the  original  thread ;  but 
the  same  propulsion  also  carries  him  away  from  it,  —  an  evidence 
that  his  work  has  its  own  independent  principle  of  movement. 
The  old  story  is  rather  the  exciting  cause  of  what  afterwards  fol- 
lows out  its  own  path. 

(  The  life  and  the  main  interest  of  Much  Ado  about  Nothing 
are  due  to  characters  which,  so  far  as  we  know,  were  entirely  orig- 
inal with  Shakespeare,  namely,  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  Dogberry 
and  Verges.  The  other  characters  have  prototypes  in  the  original 
story,  which  is  found  under  various  forms,  the  earliest  being  the 
tale  of  Ariodante  and  Ginevra,  in  the  "  Orlando  Furioso  "  of 
Ariosto. 

Sir  John  Harrington's  translation  of  Ariosto  appeared  in  1591, 
but  no  influence  of  this  version  can  be  traced  in  the  Play.  A  sim- 
ilar tale  occurs  in  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene,"  Book  II.  Canto  IV. 
Shakespeare's  original  appears  to  have  been  the  22d  novel  of 


180  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

Bandello,  which  had  been  translated  into  French  by  Belleforest, 
in  his  "  Histoires  Tragiques,"  and  possibly  into  English.  Whether 
Shakespeare  was  indebted  mediately  or  immediately  to  Bandello 
cannot  with  certainty  be  determined.  At  any  rate,  the  portion  of 
Shakespeare's  plot  pertaining  to  Claudio  and  Hero  most  resembles 
the  form  of  the  story  as  told  by  Bandello,  the  scene  of  which,  as 
is  that  of  the  Play,  is  laid  in  Messina ;  the  father  of  the  slandered 
maiden  is  named  Lionato,  and  the  friend  of  her  lover,  Don  Piero, 
or  Pedro. 

The  characters  of  the  play  who  constitute  its  main  charm  are, 
of  course,  Benedick  and  Beatrice.  And  it  is  upon  a  correct 
understanding  of  the  relations  of  these  two  characters  to  each 
other,  that  an  appreciation  of  the  comedy  essentially  depends. 
They  are  faintly  sketched  in  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  Shakespeare's 
first  genuine  play.  In  comparing,  or  rather  contrasting,  the  two 
pairs  of  lovers,  Berowne  and  Rosaline,  and  Benedick  and  Beatrice, 
we  can  see  Shakespeare's  growth,  and  the  nature  of  that  growth, 
during  the  interval  between  the  composition  of  Love's  Labor's 
Lost  and  the  composition  of  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Beatrice  has  a  better  and  deeper  nature  than  some  of  her  critics 
have  allowed  her.  While  she  is,  as  Furnivall  characterizes  her, 
"The  sauciest,  most  piquant,  sparkling,  madcap  girl  that  Shake- 
speare ever  drew,"  she  is  also,  as  he  adds,  "a  loving,  deep-natured, 
true  woman  too." 

The  poet  Campbell  slanderously  characterizes  her  as  "  an  odious 
woman,"  " a  disagreeable  female  character,"  "a  tartar  by  Shake- 
speare's own  showing,"  etc.  He  adds  :  "  I  once  knew  such  a  pair 
[as  Benedick  and  Beatrice]  ;  the  lady  was  a  perfect  Beatrice ; 
she  railed  hypocritically  at  wedlock  before  her  marriage,  and  with 
bitter  sincerity  after  it.  She  and  her  Benedick  now  live  apart,  but 
with  entire  reciprocity  of  sentiments,  each  devoutly  wishing  that 
the  other  may  soon  pass  into  a  better  world."  He  contrasts  her, 
to  her  great  disadvantage,  with  Rosalind,  in  As  You  Like  It.  Ver- 
planck  attributes  Campbell's  unjust  estimate  of  Beatrice  to  acci- 
dental personal  associations.  And  this  may  have  been  the  fact. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  181 

There  must  have  been  something  back  of  these  severe  strictures 
upon  Beatrice,  in  the  poet's  own  matrimonial  experience.  Or, 
perhaps,  the  fastidious  temperament  which  he  appears  to  have 
possessed  made  him  condemn  anything  outre*  in  the  female  char- 
acter; so  that  a  saucy,  piquant,  sparkling,  madcap  girl,  to  use 
Furnivall's  epithets,  whatever  might  be  her  more  substantial  qual- 
ities, appeared  to  him,  according  to  his  standard  of  the  proprie- 
ties, "  A  disagreeable  female  character,"  "  a  tartar,"  "  an  odious 
woman." 

Mrs.  Jameson,  along  with  much  that  is  justly  said,  says  also  cer- 
tain things  of  Beatrice,  which  do  her,  I  think,  great  injustice.  In 
her  temper,  she  says,  there's  a  slight  infusion  of  the  termagant. 
She  speaks  of  "  her  scornful  airs,"  "  her  assumption  of  superiority." 
Her  wit  she  thinks  "  less  good-humored  than  that  of  Benedick." 
"  She  appears  in  a  less  amiable  light  than  her  lover  "  ;  "  with  Bea- 
trice temper  has  still  the  mastery."  Speaking  of  her  relations  with 
her  cousin,  Hero,  she  says,  "  Beatrice  asserts  the  rule  of  a  master 
spirit."  That  is  true  enough,  if  it  is  not  understood  to  mean  that 
she  is  domineering.  Again,  speaking  of  Hero,  she  says,  "  When 
she  has  Beatrice  at  an  advantage,  she  repays  her  with  interest,  in 
the  severe,  but  most  animated  and  elegant  picture  she  draws  of 
her  cousin's  imperious  character"  etc.  This  is  certainly  an  entire 
misconception  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Jameson,  and  does  injustice 
also  to  Hero.  The  allusion  is  to  the  scene  where  Hero  speaks 
with  Ursula,  in  Leonato's  garden,  to  be  overheard  by  Beatrice. 
But  the  gentle,  negative  Hero  certainly  doesn't  mean  to  pay  her 
back.  That's  not  her  purpose  at  all,  as  any  one  can  easily  see  who 
reads  this  scene.  Again  :  "  A  haughty,  excitable,  and  violent  tem- 
per is  another  of  the  characteristics  of  Beatrice,  but  there  is  more 
of  impulse  than  of  passion  in  her  vehemence." 

Mrs.  Jameson  recognizes  the  good  and  even  noble  qualities  of 
Beatrice,  but  the  expressions  I  have  quoted,  and  others,  which 
vein  the  entire  surface  of  her  essay,  reveal,  I  think,  a  feeling  on 
the  part  of  the  authoress,  that  the  good  qualities  of  Beatrice  are  so 


1 82          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

offset  by  bad  ones,  that  the  former  are  as  likely  to  be  overbalanced 
by  the  latter,  as  the  latter  by  the  former. 

Neither  Campbell  nor  Mrs.  Jameson  can  prophesy  much  matri- 
monial happiness  for  Benedick  and  Beatrice.  Mrs.  Jameson 
thinks  they  may  be  tolerably  happy,  but  Campbell  is  quite  certain 
that  Beatrice  will  provoke  her  husband  to  give  her  much  and  just 
conjugal  castigation.  Furnivall  has  a  different,  and  I  think,  truer 
opinion  of  what  the  married  life  of  such  a  pair  would  be.  "  Fancy," 
he  says,  "  Beatrice  playing  with  her  baby,  and  her  husband  looking 
on  !  Never  child  'ud  have  had  such  fun  since  the  creation  of  the 
world." 

In  the  opening  scene  of  the  Play,  the  attitudes  of  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  towards  each  other  are  presented ;  and  it  is  plain  to  see 
to  what  those  attitudes  are  due  —  namely,  a  mutual  chaffing,  and, 
on  the  part  of  Benedick,  a  depreciation  of  womankind  which  is 
irritating  to  Beatrice  and  provokes  her  to  the  defence  of  her  sex. 
It  will  be  observed  that  she  exhibits  throughout  the  play  great  sen- 
sitiveness in  regard  to  the  honor  of  her  sex. 

From  a  speech  of  Leonato  to  the  messenger  in  the  opening 
scene,  we  learn  that  Benedick  and  Beatrice  had  had  wit  combats 
previous  to  his  going  to  the  wars  :  "  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my 
niece  :  there  is  a  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  Signior  Benedick  and 
her;  they  never  meet  but  there  is  a  skirmish  of  wit  between 
them."  The  messenger  shows  a  high  admiration  of  Benedick; 
and  her  inquiries  in  regard  to  him,  apparently  so  derisive,  are 
really  designed  to  elicit  praises  of  Benedick .  which  are  secretly 
gratifying  to  her.  When  he  enters,  With  Don  Pedro,  Don  John, 
and  Claudio,  he  begins  at  once  his  irritating  raillery.  To  Don 
Pedro's  remark  to  Leonato,  "  I  think  this  is  your  daughter," 
Leonato  replies,  "  Her  mother  has  many  times  told  me  so."  And 
then  Benedick  interposes,  addressing  Leonato,  "Were  you  in 
doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her  ?  Leon.  Signior  Benedick,  no ; 
for  then  were  you  a  child.  D.  Pedro.  You  have  it  full,  Bene- 
dick [i.e.,  you  get  as  good  as  you  gave]  :  we  may  guess  by  this 
what  you  are,  being  a  man.  Truly,  the  lady  fathers  herself :  .  .  . 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  183 

Bene.  If  Signior  Leonato  be  her  'father,  she  would  not  have  his 
head  on  her  shoulders  for  all  Messina,  as  like  him  as  she  is." 
This  speech  is  sufficient,  Beatrice  knowing  the  general  deprecia- 
tion of  woman  which  is  back  of  it,  to  cause  her  to  retort :  "  I 
wonder  that  you  will  still  [i.e.,  ever]  be  talking,  Signior  Benedick ; 
nobody  marks  you.  Bene.  What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain  !  are 
you  yet  living?"  They  are  both  now  well  started  in  "a  skirmish 
of  wit,"  in  which  Beatrice,  as  is  usual,  gets  the  best  of  it.  To 
Benedick's  remark,  "ItJs  certain  I  am  loved  of  all  ladiesT  only  you 
excepted :  and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a 
hard  heart ;  for  truly,  I  love  none,"  she  replies,  "  A  dear  happiness 
to  women  :  they  would  else  have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious 
suitor.  .  .  \  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow  than  a  man 
swear  he  loves  me."  This  speech  may  be  easily  misunderstood. 
It  has  been  misunderstood  by  some  critics.  It  musn't  be  taken 
in  its  absolute  meaning,  but  entirely  as  provoked  by  the  speech  of 
Benedick.  The  sensitive,  high-strung  girl  resents  his  professed 
indifference  to  women,  and  her  resentment  is  really  intensified  by 
the  secret  admiration  she  cherishes  for  him.  In  getting  the  bet- 
ter of  him,  in  his  own  habitual  line  of  raillery,  she  wounds  his  self- 
esteem,  as  is  shown  by  what  he  says  of  her  to  Claudio,  when  all 
the  others  go  out.  But  we  feel  as  we  do  in  the  case  of  Beatrice, 
that  what  he  says  is  emphasized  by  the  half-conscious  admiration 
he  has  of  her.  In  reply  to  Claudio's  praises  of  Hero,  in  which  he 
pronounces  her  as,  in  his  eye,  the  sweetest  lady  that  he  ever 
looked  on,  Benedick  says  :  "  I  can  see  yet  .without  spectacles  and 
I  see  no  such  matter :  there's  her  cousin,  and  she  were  not  pos- 
sessed with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of 
May  does  the  last  of  December."  Having  spoken  of  her  as  pos- 
sessed with  a  fury,  he  can,  without  incurring  the  suspicion  of  any 
extended  admiration,  praise  her  beauty  as  far  surpassing  Hero's ; 
but  the  reader,  or  the  spectator,  is  assured  that  his  admiration 
goes  beyond  her  personal  charms. 

In  the  masquerade  scene,  where  the  two  next  meet,  Benedick 
is  cut  to  the  quick,  and,  in  spite  of  their  secret  interest  in  each 


1 84  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

other,  a  barrier  is  raised  between  them  which,  we  shall  see,  has 
to  be  removed  by  the  kind  interposition  of  their  common  friends. 
There  are  two  courtships  going  on,  in  the  masquerade  scene,  Don 
Pedro's,  of  Hero,  in  behalf  of  Claudio,  who  hasn't  the  courage  to 
court  Hero  in  his  own  parson,  and  Balthazar's,  of  Margaret.  The 
conversation  is  a  mixed  one,  of  course.  We  have  only  bits  of 
what  passes  between  the  different  pairs.  First  we  have  a  bit  of 
Don  Pedro's  talk  with  Hero  ;  then,  of  Balthazar's,  with  Margaret ; 
then  of  Ursula's,  with  Antonio ;  and  then  what  passes  between 
Benedick  and  Beatrice.  "Beat.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you 
so?  Bene.  No,  you  shall  pardon  me.  Beat.  Nor  will  you  not 
tell  me  who  you  are  ?  Bene.  Not  now.  Beat.  That  I  was  dis- 
dainful, and  that  I  had  my  good  wit  out  of  the  'Hundred 
Merry  Tales ; '  —  well,  this  was  Signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 
Bene.  What's  he?  Beat.  I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 
Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me.  Beat.  Did  he  never  make  you 
laugh?  Bene.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he?  Beat.  Why,  he  is  the 
prince's  jester ;  a  very  dull  fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impos- 
sible slanders :  none  but  libertines  delight  in  him ;  and  the  com- 
mendation is  not  in  his  wit  but  in  his  villainy ;  for  he  both  pleases 
men  and  angers  them,  and  then  they  laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  I 
am  sure  he  is  in  the  fleet :  I  would  he  had  boarded  me."  (Note 
the  equivocal  use  of  "  fleet,"  which  may  mean  the  company  present, 
a  company  of  ships,  or,  the  prison  for  insolvent  debtors  ;  "boarded  " 
carries  out  the  figure,  "  I  would  he  had  boarded  me,"  that  is,  in- 
stead of  you.)  "Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him 
what  you  say.  Beat.  Do,  do  :  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or  two 
on  me ;  which,  peradventure  not  marked  or  not  laughed  at,  strikes 
him  into  melancholy ;  and  then  there's  a  partridge  wing  saved,  for 
the  fool  will  eat  no  supper  that  night." 

The  effect  upon  Benedick  of  the  masked  interview  with  Beatrice, 
we  learn  from  the  account  of  it  he  afterwards  gives  to  Don  Pedro. 
She  misused  him,  he  says,  past  the  endurance  of  a  block.  She 
speaks  poniards,  and  every  word  stabs.  He  declares  he  wouldn't 
marry  her  even  if  she  were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam  had  left 


MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  185 

him  before  he  transgressed ;  she  would  have  made  Hercules  have 
turned  spit,  yea,  and  have  cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too. 
When  she  enters,  Benedick  makes  an  abrupt  exit,  saying,  "  O  God, 
sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not ;  I  cannot  endure  my  Lady  Tongue." 

Things  have  now  come  to  such  a  passrthe  pair  are  so  shut  off 
from  each  other,  as  it  were,  by  their  persistent  wit  and  raillery, 
that  only  by  the  kind  interposition  of  their  friends  can  their 
mutual  disguises  be  stript  off.  This  is  done  by  the  stratagem,  first 
proposed  by  Don  Pedro,  and  heartily  seconded  by  Leonato, 
Claudio,  and  Hero. 

There  are  some  commentators  who  go  so  far  astray  as  to  under- 
stand this  stratagem  as  little  more  than  a  practical  joke,  for  unit- 
ing in  marriage  two  people,  apparently  so  antagonistic,  and  so 
utterly  unfitted  to  sustain  to  each  other  the  relations  of  husband 
and  wife.  Shakespeare  would  certainly  not  have  condescended  to 
anything  so  small  as  that,  whereby  to  excite  mirth.  If  it  were  so, 
it  would  degrade  the  whole  play.  Even  Mrs.  Jameson  speaks  of 
the  stratagem  as  practised  upon  Beatrice,  as  "a  snare  laid  for 
her  affections."  If  Beatrice's  affections  were  not  already  enlisted, 
the  stratagem  would  be  silly.  Don  Pedro  is  entirely  serious  when 
he  says :  "  I  would  fain  have  it  a  match,  and  I  doubt  not  but  to 
fashion  it,  if  you  three  will  but  minister  such  assistance  as  I  shall 
give  you  direction."  Leonato,  the  uncle  and  guardian  of  Beatrice, 
whom  he  loves  as  deeply  as  he  does  his  own  daughter,  replies, 
"  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  tho'  it  cost  me  ten  nights'  watching." 
He  certainly  doesn't  understand  what  is  about  to  be  done,  as  a 
practical  joke,  to  entrap  his  niece  and  Benedick  into  an  ill-assorted 
marriage  which  would  of  course  result  in  a  plentiful  lack  of  happi- 
ness. No.  It  is  because  he  feels  assured  that  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  have  already  a  secret  love  for  each  other,  notwithstand- 
ing their  combats,  which  he  calls,  in  the  opening  scene  of  the 
play,  "a  kind  of  merry  war  "  and  "a  skirmish  of  wit,"  and  be- 
cause he  feels  assured  that  their  union  would  be  one  of  happiness. 
The  other  view  makes  an  ass  of  Leonato.  And  then  see  what 
Hero  says,  between  whom  and  her  cousin  Beatrice,  there  is  a  deep 


1 86          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

sisterly  affection.  After  Leonato  has  said,  "  My  lord,  I  am  for 
you,  tho'  it  cost  me  ten  nights'  watchings,"  Claudio  says,  "  And  I, 
my  lord."  Then  Don  Pedro  turns  to  Hero  and  says,  "  And  you 
too,  gentle  Hero? "  To  which  she  replies,  " I  will  do  any  modest 
office,  my  lord,  to  help  my  cousin  to  a  good  husband."  The 
speech  of  Don  Pedro  which  follows,  and  which  closes  the  scene, 
testifies  to  Benedick's  noble  lineage,  his  approved  valor  and  con- 
firmed honesty. 

The  soliloquies  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  after  the  stratagem 
has  been  practised  upon  each,  show  what  their  real  selves  are 
which  have  been  hitherto  disguised.  Benedick's  soliloquy,  taken 
with  the  soliloquy  which  precedes  the  stratagem,  and  in  which  his 
railing  against  matrimony  reaches  its  climax,  has  a  most  comic 
effect.  Beatrice's  soliloquy,  which  she  utters  after  Hero  and  Ur- 
sula go  out,  exhibits  the  genuineness  of  her  nature. 

Coming  forward,  she  says : 

"  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears?    Can  this  be  true? 
Stand  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 
No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on  ;  I  will  requite  thee, 
Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand : 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 
To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band ; 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly." 

i.e.,  better  than  on  hearsay. 

We  have  seen  what  has  hitherto  sharpened  and  winged  the 
arrows  shot  at  Benedick.  She  has  been  kept  in  a  state  of  chronic 
pique  at  his  constant  satirical  reflections  upon,  and  his  professed 
non-allegiance  to,  the  sex  whose  honor  she  has  felt  herself  called 
upon  to  defend.  Her  true  self,  which  has  all  along  secretly  admired 
the  solid  elements  of  Benedick's  character,  has  been,  in  conse- 
quence, kept  in  the  background ;  but  as  soon  as  she  is  made  to 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  l8/ 

believe  that  Benedick  loves  her,  this  true  self  comes  immediately 
to  the  front.  There  is  no  transformation  wrought  —  only  a  barrier 
has  been  removed  which  the  two  have  co-operated  to  place  between 
themselves  by  their  sharp  wit-skirmishes. 

Their  mutual  misnoting,  along  with  their  mutual  love,  is  what 
essentially  constitutes  the  comedy  of  the  situation.  If  it  be 
understood,  as  it  is  understood,  more  or  less  distinctly  by  some 
critics  and  readers,  that  a  transformation  has  been  wrought  in  each 
by  the  similar  stratagem  practised  upon  each,  the  comedy  of  the 
situation  is  quite  destroyed.  At  any  rate,  it  is  of  a  very  much 
inferior  quality,  and,  I  would  add,  it  is  not  of  a  Shakespearian 
quality. 

The  stratagem  having  been  successfully  carried  out,  the  dramatic 
problem  is,  to  raise  them  to  the  height  required,  after  all  that  has 
passed,  for  a  mutual  confession  of  love,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
keep  their  self-respect  entire.  This  problem  the  poet  has,  as  we 
shall  see,  beautifully  solved. 

The  unshakable  faith,  the  deep  sympathy,  and  the  moral  indig- 
nation, of  which  Beatrice  is  capable,  are  shown  in  the  scene  in 
the  church,  where  poor  Hero  is  so  cruelly  treated.  Shakespeare 
delights  in  situations  which  serve  to  exhibit  the  moral  beauty  of 
woman ;  and  he  has  made  the  situation  here  reveal  the  wealth  of 
Beatrice's  soul.  Though  her  real  nature  has  already  been  distinctly 
shown,  in  her  soliloquy,  after  she  overhears  her  cousin  and  Ursula, 
in  the  garden,  it  is  here  exalted  and  enlarged,  and  no  question  can 
arise  as  to  what  manner  of  woman  she  is.  After  the  charge  has 
been  brought  against  the  bride  by  the  bridegroom,  at  the  very 
altar,  and  it  has  been  sustained  by  the  Prince,  both  of  whom,  as 
Benedick  later  expresses  it,  having  the  very  bent  of  honor,  the 
bride's  own  father  feels  constrained,  from  such  testimony,  to  believe 
it  true.  Benedick  interrupts  his  bewailing  speech  with  "  Sir,  sir,  be 
patient.  For  my  part  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder  I  know  not  what 
to  say."  But  Beatrice  knows  what  to  say.  In  spite  of  all  the 
strong  testimony  against  her  cousin,  in  spite  of  the  father's  harshly 
expressed  belief  in  her  shame,  Beatrice  exclaims,  "Oh,  on  my 


1 88  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  !  "  Her  full,  unfaltering  belief  in  Hero's 
innocence  is  shown  still  more  strongly  by  the  reply  she  makes  to 
Benedick's  inquiry  as  to  whether  she  were  Hero's  bedfellow  the 
previous  night.  "  No,  truly  not ;  although,  until  last  night,  I  have 
this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow."  This  frank  reply,  which 
gives  strong  circumstantial  support  to  the  charge  against  Hero,  she 
makes  fearlessly,  evidently  feeling  that  the  case  can  bear  to  have 
the  whole  truth  told  without  the  least  reservation,  and  that  Hero 
must  be  innocent,  and  will  finally  be  proved  so,  all  testimony, 
direct  and  circumstantial  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding.  The 
dramatist  has,  with  great  skill  and  by  the  simplest  means,  made 
the  nobleness  and  perfect  genuineness  of  Beatrice's  character  stand 
out  here  in  the  strongest  light. 

Her  testimony  that  Hero  was  not  her  bedfellow  the  previous 
night,  confirms  the  father  in  his  belief  of  the  charge,  —  "  makes 
stronger  what  was  before  barred  up  with  ribs  of  iron."  The  good 
Friar  Francis  interposes  in  a  speech  which  does  honor  to  his  heart, 
but  which  has  no  effect  upon  the  wrought-up  Leonato.  To  the 
question  of  the  Fmr,  "  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused 
of  ?""  Hero  replies,  v  They  know  that  do  accuse  me  ;  I  know  none  : 
if  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive  than  that  which  maiden  modesty 
doth  warrant,  let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy .y  ^  ,;.  A  ^  ^o^^ 

The  Friar  thereupon  remarking  that  there  is  some  strange  mis 
understanding  on  the  part  of  the  princes,  Benedick,  assured  as  he 
is  that  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio  "  have  the  very  bent  of  honor,"  is 
led  to  express  the  suspicion  that  the  charge  against  Hero  is  all  the 
work  of  Don  John  the  bastard,  "whose  spirits  toil,"  he  says,  "in 
frame  of  villainies."  This  gives  a  turn  to  things.  Hero  having 
swooned  upon  her  father's  saying  "  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a 
point  for  me,"  in  which  speech,  we  must  understand,  was  implied 
to  her  a  belief  in  the  charge  made  against  her,  and  the  princes 
having  left  her  for  dead,  the  Friar  proposes  a  plan,  which  is  sec- 
onded by  Benedick,  that  her  death  be  published,  that  a  mourning 
ostentation  be  maintained,  that  mournful  epitaphs  be  hung  on  the 
family  monument,  and  all  rites  be  performed  that  appertain  unto 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  189 

a  burial.  This  plan  well  carried  out  shall,  he  says,  "  on  her  behalf, 
change  slander  to  remorse  [pity]  ;  that  is  some  good  :  but  not  for 
that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course,  but  on  this  travail  look  for 
greater  birth."  This  greater  birth  he  sets  forth  in  a  speech  the 
most  beautiful  in  sentiment  and  in  tone,  of  the  whole  play,  one  of 
the  most  beautiful,  indeed,  in  Shakespeare  :  -v 

"  She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd, 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accus'd, 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excus'd, 
Of  every  hearer  :  For  it  so  falls  out, 
That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost, 
Why  then  we  rack  the  value,  -then  we  find 
The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours  :  So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio : 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  his  study  of  imagination  ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit, 
More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 
Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed :  —  then  shall  he  mourn, 
(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver,) 
And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her ; 
No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true." 

Friar  Francis  is,  of  all  Shakespeare's  friars,  the  favorite,  I  am 
sure,  with  readers  of  the  Plays,  though  Friar  Laurence,  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  commands  equally  our  love  and  respect. 

Leonato,  urged  by  Benedick,  in  a  speech  which  shows  how  he 
has  been  lifted  up  by  the  occasion  and  by  Beatrice's  exhibition  of 
her  highest  self,  replies,  "  being  that  I  flow  in  grief,  the  smallest 
twine  may  lead  me." 

Very  beautiful  is  the  art  with  which  Shakespeare  has  raised 
Benedick  and  Beatrice  to  the  height  required  for  a  mutual  avowal 


IQO  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

of  love,  after  all  that  has  passed  between  them ;  and  when  Leo- 
nato  and  the  Friar  go  out,  and  they  are  left  alone  on  the  scene, 
we  see,  in  the  best  light,  what  in  each  has  been  shut  off,  more  or 
•  less,  from  view,  by  wit  and  banter,  and  mutual  misunderstanding 
—  mutual  misnoting  (to  revert  to  the  punning  title  of  the  Play) . 

Their  preparedness  for  a  mutual  confession  of  love,  and,  on 
Benedick's  part,  for  all  that  will  be  involved  in  that,  in  relation 
to  righting  Beatrice's  cousin,  is  indicated,  at  once,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  their  conference,  after  Leonato  and  the  Friar  go  out  (A. 
IV.  Sc.  i.  257)  :  "  Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this 
while?  Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer.  Bene.  I 
will  not  desire  that.  Beat.  You  have  no  reason ;  I  do  it  freely. 
Bene.  Surely  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is  wronged.  Beat. 
Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me  that  would  right 
her  !  Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ?  Beat. 
A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend.  Bene.  May  a  man  do  it? 
Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours."  The  movement  of  the 
dialogue  thus  far,  is  very  nice,  all  the  circumstances  considered. 
In  Beatrice's  speech,  "  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours,"  there 
is  nothing  whatever  pettish  or  ill-humored  to  be  understood,  nor 
the  slightest  ingratitude  for  the  kindly-disposed  questions  of  Bene- 
dick. On  the  contrary,  it  involves  the  most  delicate  consideration 
for  Benedick,  and  indicates  that  she  has  "  the  very  bent  of  honor." 
In  the  first  place,  their  relations  to  each  other  have  not  gone  far 
enough  just  yet,  to  give  Beatrice  the  right  to  make  any  claims 
whatever  upon  Benedick  for  the  righting  of  her  deeply-injured 
cousin ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  those  who  have  directly  wronged 
her  cousin,  namely,  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio,  are,  she  knows,  Bene- 
dick's dearest  friends.  She  knows  nothing  yet,  of  course,  of  what 
h'as  impelled  them  to  the  charge  made  against  Hero.  Benedick 
is  quick  to  recognize  in  her  speech  what  is  in  the  way  of  her  mak- 
ing any  claims  upon  him,  and  in  reply  says,  "  /  do  love  nothing  in 
the  world  so  well  as  you  "  .•  and  adds,  with  a  sense  of  their  past 
squabbling  relations,  "  is  not  that  strange  ?  " 

The  way  is  now  opened  up  for  Beatrice  to  make  confession  of 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  19 1 

her  love ;  and  this,  it  is  evident,  yet  remains  to  be  done  before 
any  claim  can  be  made  upon  Benedick,  —  before  it  becomes  his 
office  to  right  Hero.  That  way  she  enters  with  a  charming  indi- 
rectness :  "  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It  were  as  pos- 
sible for  me  to  say  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you :  but  believe 
me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not ;  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  noth- 
ing. I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin.  Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice, 
thou  lovest  me."  There  seems  to  be  implied  in  "  by  my  sword," 
that  Benedick,  who  is  characterized  by  great  quickness  of  percep- 
tion, already  anticipates  what  will  be  required  of  him,  as  soon  as 
the  confession  of  love  is  mutual.  Beatrice  replies,  "  Do  not  swear 
and  eat  it " ;  in  which  there  is  evidently  implied  her  sense  of  the 
severe  task  it  will  necessarily  be  for  Benedick  to  challenge  either 
of  his  friends,  in  support  of  the  honor  of  Hero.  Benedick  again 
is  quick  to  understand,  and  replies,  "  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you 
love  me ;  and  I  will  make  him  eat  it  that  says  I  love  not  you." 
Beatrice  tests  him  still  further,  though  with  the  kindest  and  most 
honorable  feeling,  by  saying,  "Will  you  not  eat  your  word? 
Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.  I  protest  I  love 
thee."  Beatrice  now  feels  that  the  final  word,  with  all  that  is 
involved  in  it,  can  be  uttered,  and  says,  "  Why,  then,  God  for- 
give me  !  Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ?  Beat.  You  have 
stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour ;  I  was  about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 
Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart.  Beat.\\  love  you  with  so 
much  of  my  heart  that  none  is  left  to  pro  test.  *Y  Upon  this  Bene- 
dick at  once  feels  that  they  are  now  all  the  world  to  each  other, 
and  that  there  are  no  outside  considerations  in  the  way  of  Bea- 
trice's making  any  demands  upon  him,  and  abruptly  says,  "  Come, 
bid  me  do  anything  for  thee  " ;  upon  which  Beatrice  makes  the 
unexpected  and  startling  demand,  "  Kill  Claudio."  This  speech 
has  been  made  a  little  too  much  of,  by  critics  who  have  regarded 
Beatrice  ^as  an  unamiable  character.  She  utters  it  the  moment  all 
obstacles  are  removed  from  her  making  demands  upon  Benedick, 
just  as  the  gentlest  and  kindest  person  might  use  a  strong  expres- 
sion when  under  the  influence  of  deep  feeling.  It  exhibits  the 


1 92          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

intense  moral  indignation  she  has  felt  and  still  feels,  by  reason  of 
her  cousin's  wrongs.  When  the  command  is  sprung  upon  Bene- 
dick, his  reply,  notwithstanding  all  that  he  has  just  said,  leaps 
spontaneously  from  his  lips,  showing  the  genuine  and  deep  friend- 
ship he  entertains  for  Claudio,  and  doing  honor  to  his  heart, 
"Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world."  But  he  is  fully  assured  of  what 
his  duty  is  as  the  lover  of  Beatrice  and  as  a  man  of  honor,  and 
resolves  to  do  it.  "Think  you,"  he  says,  "  in  your  soul  the  Count 
Claudio  hath  wronged  Hero?  Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a 
thought  or  a  soul.  Bene.  Enough,  I  am  engaged ;  I  will  chal- 
lenge him.  I  will  kiss  your  hand ;  and  so  I  leave  you.  By 
this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account.  As  you  hear 
of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go  comfort  your  cousin  :  I  must  say  she 
is  dead;  and  so,  farewell." 

Things  begin  to  have  a  decidedly  tragic  look ;  but  the  reader,  or 
the  spectator,  knows  what  the  actors  do  not  know ;  and  the  situa- 
tion has  for  him  a  comic  background.  He  knows  of  the  villany  of 
Don  John,  and  that  it  has  been  discovered  by  the  watchmen  who 
overhear  the  story  told  by  Borachio  to  Conrade  (A.  III.  Sc.  iii.) . 
Leonato  has  the  opportunity  of  knowing  about  the  villany  before 
he  goes  to  church,  Dogberry  and  Verges  having  called  on  him  at 
his  house  to  acquaint  him  with  it ;  but  in  his  haste  to  be  off  to 
the  marriage  ceremony,  he,  having  only  learned  from  them  that 
the  watch  "  have  comprehended  two  aspicious  persons,"  dismisses 
the  rude  but  faithful  officials  to  make  the  examination  themselves 
of  the  culprits. 

In  A.  V.  Sc.  i.  in  et seq.,  we  see  how  Benedick  comports  him- 
self, in  challenging  Claudio.  In  spite  of  their  high-proof  mel^n- 
choly,  as  they  call  it,  Claudio  and  Don  Pedro  are  disposed  to 
indulge  in  drollery,  and  their  accustomed  banter,  with  Benedick, 
who  soon  shows  to  them  both  his  indisposition  and  his  superiority 
thereto.  He  is  now  only  the  man  of  honor  —  honor  backed  and 
braced  by  love  of  Beatrice  and  regard  for  her  deeply-wronged 
cousin. 

Benedick   having  challenged  Claudio  and  gone  out,  Dogberry, 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  193 

Verges,  and  the  Watch,  enter  with  Conrade  and  Borachio,  and 
Don  Pedro  and  Claudio  learn  how  their  over-ready  credulity  has 
been  abused,  through  the  machinations  of  the  Bastard,  Don  John. 
But  they  don't  learn  that  Hero  is  -alive ;  nor  do  they  know  this 
till  in  the  last  scene  of  the  Play. 

When  Benedick  and  Beatrice  again  meet,  Benedick  assures  her 
that  he  has  challenged  Claudio,  adding  "  and  either  I  must  shortly 
hear  from  him,  or  I  will  subscribe  him  a  coward."  This  ends  the 
honor  matter.  Each  can  now  say, 

"  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Immediately  upon  this,(  their  pleasantries  are  renewed,  with  a 
mutual  understanding!  of  tnem,  Benedick  asking  her  for  which  of 
his  bad  parts  she  firsjl;  fell  in  love  with  him ;  and  she  asking  him 
for  which  of  her  good  parts  he  first  suffered  love  for  her,  etc. 
Ursula  enters  and  informs  them  of  the  discovery  of  the  villany  of 
Don  John,  and  they  go  out.  Lloyd  remarks,  Beatrice  is  misrepre- 
sented when  actors  allow  to  Benedick  at  this  point,  a  premature 
success,  that  is,  a  kiss.  This  is  reserved  for  the  last  scene,  when 
after  manful  perseverance,  he  is  victorious  at  last,  over  the  banter 
of  others  and  his  own,  and  seals  his  success  by  kissing  her  to  stop 
her  mouth ;  and  in  first  proof  of  self-control,  she  leaves  to  her 
husband  the  office  of  retort  and  speaks  no  more. 


IQ4  HAMLET. 


O1 


HAMLET. 


INE  of  the  many  vexed  questions  to  which  the  Tragedy  of 
Hamlet   has   given   rise — a  question  which  has,  indeed, 
been  imposed  upon  the  play,  as  a  good  many  other  questions  have 
been  —  is  that  of  Hamlet's  sanity  or  insanity. 

There  is  no  other  of  Shakespeare's  dramas  in  which  the  hero 
occupies  so  large  a  space,  is  so  great  a  part.  Hamlet  is  the  pro- 
tagonist in  the  tragedy ;  he  is,  in  fact,  the  all,  the  entire  play.  It 
is  this  which  gives  the  meaning  to  the  common  saying,  expressive 
of  nothing  remaining,  "The  play  of  Hamlet  with  Hamlet  left  out." 
In  the  introduction  to  "The  Talisman,"  Scott  says:  "'The  Be- 
trothed '  did  not  greatly  please  one  or  two  friends,  who  thought  that 
it  did  not  well  correspond  to  the  general  title  of  '  The  Crusaders.' 
They  urged,  therefore,  that  without  direct  allusion  to  the  manners 
of  the  Eastern  tribes,  and  to  the  romantic  conflicts  of  the  period, 
the  title  of  a  'Tale  of  the  Crusaders,'  would  resemble  the  play 
bill  which  is  said  to  have  announced  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet,  the 
character  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark  being  left  out." 

If  Hamlet  is  deranged,  he  should  be  handed  over  for  treatment 
to  the  superintendent  of  an  Insane  Hospital  —  he  is  not  a  subject 
for  the  art  critic.  If  he  is  deranged,  and  the  poet  has  presented 
through  him  correct  phenomena  of  mental  disease,  the  play  may 
be  regarded  as  a  valuable  contribution  to  pathology,  but  is  not 
entitled  to  a  niche  in  the  great  temple  of  Art. 

Hamlet's  sanity,  then,  must  be  postulated,  for  it  is  only  on  such 
postulate  that  the  art  critic  carTproceed.     But  here  it  may  be 
/    asked,  cannot  the  insane  or  the  diseased  in  any  form  be  employed 
JJ         as  part  of  the  material  with  which  the  artist  works?     Most  cer- 


HAMLET.  195 

tainly  it  can  —  but  the  idea  of  his  work  cannot  centre  in  it  — 
cannot  be  based  upon  it.  That  idea  must  be  one  of  health,  of 
reason,  of  harmony  with  the  constitution  of  things.  Insanity  may 
be  employed  in  a  work  of  art  just  as  any  other  form  of  evil,  of 
moral  obliquity,  of  moral  darkness,  is  employed  —  but  insanity, 
or  any  other  form  of  evil,  of  moral  obliquity,  of  moral  darkness, 
must  be  subsidiary^  to  sanity,  to  the  good  and  the  true,  to  moral 
rectitude,  to  moral  light. 

Those  dramatic  compositions  which  have  exerted- the  greatest 
influence  over  the  sympathies  of  men  are  all  characterized  by  a 
large  and  even  predominant  element  of  moral  obliquity,  of  moral 
evil,  of  moral  darkness.  Look  at  all  the  great  Greek  tragedies 
that  have  come  down  to  us,  at  the  masterpieces  of  the  modern 
drama,  especially  those  of  Shakespeare.  Their  power  might  be 
pronounced  to  be  almost  in  direct  proportion  to  the  degree  in 
which  the  element  of  moral  darkness  predominates.  Witness  his 
Richard  the  Third,  his  King  Lear,  his  Macbeth,  his  Othello.  All 
these  plays  exert,  and  ever  will  exert,  a  powerful  influence  over 
the  sympathies  of  mankind. 

Now  what  is  the  attraction  for  the  artist  when  he  selects  subjects 
so  characterized  by  enormity  of  crime,  by  enormity,  we  might  say, 
of  the  unreasonable?  Is  it  that  he  loves  darkness  rather  than 
light,  that  evil  deeds  constitute  so  large  an  element  of  his  creations? 
And  is  it  because  men  in  general  love  darkness  rather  than  light, 
that  they  sympathize  so  deeply  with  such  themes  when  treated  by 
a  great  master?  Certainly  not.  The  artist  does  not  employ,  and 
men  are  not  interested  in,  moral  darkness  for  its  own  sake ;  this, 
the  most  depraved  would  not  be  willing  to  admit ;  but  the  attrac- 
tive element  and  the  real  basis  of  their  sympathy  is  the  light  which 
struggles  with,  and  is  intensified  by,  the  darkness. 

A  mere  reproduction  of  nature  and  of  human  life  is  not  the 
end  of  art,  but  the  emphasizing  and  intensifying  of  these  in  a  way 
to  impress  deeply  and  pleasurably  (*>.,  harmoniously) .  And  by 
emphasis,  I  mean  something  other  than  stress  or  strain  of  expres- 
sion. I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  Where  there's  the  greatest  em- 


196  HAMLET. 

phasis,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  there's  the  least  stress  and  strain 
of  expression.  It  is  only  by  emphasizing  the  natural,  and  the  mani- 
fold phases  of  human  life  and  character,  that  the  poet  secures  a  re- 
sponse in  less  susceptible  souls.  The  great  poet's  soul  is  an  ^olian 
harp  which  vibrates  responsive  to  the  faintest  spiritual  breathings 
of  things ;  but  ordinary  souls  are  like  the  stiff  cordage  of  ships 
which  makes  music  only  when  played  upon  by  the  strongest  blasts. 

Now  one  of  the  most  effectual  means  of  emphasis  and  inten- 
sity, employed  by  the  word  or  color  artist  is,  with  the  one, 
moral  darkness,  with  the  other,  physical  darkness,  and  these, 
in  every  true  art  product,  are  subsidiary  to  moral  and  physical 
light.  As  Blackie  remarks,  in  his  lectures  on  Beauty,  "  A  picture 
becomes  a  picture  in  the  highest  artistical  sense,  only  when  the 
forms  and  lights  composing  it  are  separated  from  the  great 
world  of  form  and  light,  of  which  it  is  a  part,  by  a  certain  and 
very  appreciable  darkness."  And  this  applies  equally  as  well  to 
word-painting  as  to  color-painting.  Without  moral  or  physical 
darkness,  there  can  be,  in  an  art  product,  no  intensity  of  moral  or 
physical  light. 

It  is  the  light,  then,  which  struggles  with  the  darkness,  which  is 
revealed  and  intensified  by  the  darkness,  which  is  the  ultimate  aim 
of  all  art  worthy  of  the  name ;  and,  although  darkness  may  consti- 
tute, as  it  frequently  does,  the  largest  element,  yet,  in  every  true  art 
product,  it  must  ever  be  regarded  as  subsidiary  to  the  exhibition 
of  the  light. 

*  Now,  if  all  this  is  true,  it  might  appear  that  Hamlet's  insanity, 
assuming  him  to  be  insane,  could  be  brought  within  the  category 
of  dark  and  intensifying  elements.  If  so,  we  should  have  to  look 
outside  of  him  for  what  is  intensified ;  it  would  have  to  centre 
in  some  one  of  the  other  characters  :  it  could  not  centre  in  him 
—  in  the  unreasonable,  the  unreasoning.  It  might  be  resident  in 
a  great  criminal,  as  is  the  case  in  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth.  But 
Macbeth  is  a  responsible  being ;  and  when  we  sympathize  with 
him,  in  an  art  sense,  we  sympathize  with  that  force  which  we  recog- 
nize as  the  stuff  out  of  which  true  greatness  and  nobility  of  charac- 


HAMLET.  197 

ter  are  built.  But  if  he  were  to  do  what  he  does,  in  a  state  of 
insanity,  of  irresponsibility,  of  unconsciousness  as  to  the  enormity  of 
his  crimes,  he  would  no  longer  be  an  art  subject,  but  a  subject  for 
a  strait- jacket.  It  is  not  in  the  constitution  of  our  common  nature 
to  sympathize  with  crime  as  crime.  In  the  case  of  a  great  criminal 
like  Macbeth,  our  sympathy  goes  with  him  so  far  as  he  asserts  his 
moral  freedom  and  no  further. 

/Insanity,  that  degree,  be  it  less  or  more,  of  mental  derangement 
which  does  away  with  the  responsibility  of  a  man  for  his  acts,  can- 
^iot,  of  itself,  be  artistically  treated.  Art  is  the  expression  of,  and 
must  be  in  sympathy  with,  the  rational  and  the  moral  constitution 
of  things  ;  and  a  human  being  can,  of  himself,  be  a  subject  for  art 
only  when  his  reason  and  moral  sense,  however  much  they  may  be 
\  obscured,  have  that  degree  of  vitality  and  activity  which  responsi- 
bility implies  and  demands. 

In  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet,  all  the  other  persons  of  the  drama, 
while  having  their  own  distinct  and  well-defined  individualities, 
and  independent  movements  of  their  own,  may  at  the  same  time 
be  said  to  exist  for  the  exhibition  of  the  character  of  Hamlet.    He 
is,  as  I  have  said,  the  all,  the  entire  play,  and  in  him  centres  the 
idea  of  the  play ;  and  accordingly  —  assuming  the  play  to  be  a 
legitimate  art  product,  and  no  one  certainly  would  deny  it  this 
character  —  the  a  priori  conclusion  in  regard  to  Hamlet  himself 
must  be,  that  his  reason  and  moral  sense  meet  the  demands  of  an 
artistic  treatment.     If  they  did  not,  it  would  be  hard  to  explain 
why  the  play  has  retained  its  strange  interest  for  the  greatest  minds 
in  all  civilized  nations  for  nearly  three  hundred  years. 
*   When  the  testimonies  to  his  sanity  afforded  by  the  play  are  con-  j 
/  sidered,  the  wonder  is  that  any  question  was  ever  raised  in  regard  ! 
'  to  it.     These  testimonies  are  chiefly  afforded,  i,  by  what  Hamlet | 
says,  in  a  direct  way,  in  regard  to  himself  and  his  actions ;  2,  byj 
his  soliloquies  (a  common  means  with  Shakespeare,  as  indeed  it  isj 
~      with  all  dramatists,  by  which  his  characters  are  made  to  revealj 
their  true  selves  when  they  wish,  or  are  obliged,  to  conceal  them] 
from  others ;  Edmund,  in  King  Lear,  for  example,  and  lago,  in 


198  HAMLET. 

Othello);  and  3,  by  the  interviews  Hamlet  has  with  his  bosom 
friend  and  only  confidant,  Horatio. 

Let  us  turn  to  these  sources  of  evidence.  And  i,  what  Hamlet 
says  in  a  direct  way,  in  regard  to  himself  and  his  actions. 

In  the  5th  Scene  of  the  ist  Act,  after  the  Ghost  has  appeared 
and  made  his  dread  revelation  to  Hamlet,  and  imposed  upon  him 
the  sacred  obligation  of  avenging  his  foul  and  most  unnatural 
murder,  the  Prince  prepares  Horatio  and  Marcellus  for  the  part  he 
is  about  to  act.  He  makes  them  swear  by  his  sword,  which  was 
in  fact,  equivalent  to  swearing  by  the  cross. 

"Ham.  .  .  .  And  now,  good  friends, 
As  you  are  friends,  scholars  and  soldiers, 
Give  me  one  poor  request. 

Hor.   What  is' t,  my  lord?    we  will. 

Ham.   Never  make  kown  what  you  have  seen  to-night. 

Mar  I  My  lord,  we  will  not. 

Ham.   Nay,  but  swear't. 

Hor.   In  faith,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord,  in  faith. 

Ham.   Upon  my  sword. 

Mar.   We  have  sworn,  my  lord,  already. 

Ham.   Indeed,  upon  my  sword,  indeed. 

Ghost.    [Beneath.]  Swear. 

Ham.   Ah,  ha,  boy!  say'st  thou  so?  art  thou  there,  truepenny? 
Come  on  ;  you  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellerage  ; 
Consent  to  swear. 

Hor.   Propose  the  oath,  my  lord. 

Ham.   Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.    [Beneath.}  Swear. 

Ham.   Hie  &  ubique  f    Then  we'll  shift  for  ground, 
Come  hither,  gentlemen, 
And  lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword, 
Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  heard  : 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.    [Beneath. ~\  Swear. 


HAMLET. 


199 


f 


Ham.  Well  said,  old  mole !  canst  work  in  the  earth  so  fast? 
A  worthy  pioner  !   once  more  remove,  good  friends. 

Hor.   Oh  day  and  night,  but  this  is  wondrous  strange! 

Ham.  And  therefore  as  a  stranger  give  it  welcome. 
There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Then  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy. 
But  come ; 

Here,  as  before,  never,  so  help  you  mercy, 
How  strange  or  odd  soe'er  I  bear  myself, 
(As  I,  perchance,  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on :) 
That  you,  at  such  time  seeing  me,  never  shall 
With  arms  encumber'd  thus,  or  thus,  head  shake, 
Or  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 
As,  '  Well,  we  know ; '  or,  *  We  could,  and  if  we  would ; ' 
Or,  '  If  we  list  to  speak ; '  or,  «  There  be,  and  if  there  might ; ' 
Or  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 
That  you  know  aught  of  me  :  This  not  to  do, 
So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you, 
Swear. 

Ghost.    {Beneath.}  Swear. 

Ham.   Rest,  rest,  perturbed  spirit !    So,  gentlemen, 
With  all  my  love  I  do  commend  me  to  you : 
And  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is 
May  do,  to  express  his  love  and  friending  to  you, 
God  willing,  shall  not  lack.     Let  us  go  in  together; 
And  still  your  fingers  on  your  lips,  I  pray. 
The  time  is  out  of  joint ;  —  Oh  cursed  spite ! 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! 

Nay,  come,  let's  go  together."  [Exeunt. 

—  A.  I.  Sc.  v.  140-190. 

Hamlet  has  here  already  taken  in  the  whole  difficulty  of  the 
situation  —  and  that  difficulty  is  an  nhj/rti^c  one,  not  a  subjective. 
It  is  not  a  difficulty  due  to  Hamlet's  own  character.  It  is  a  diffi- 
culty outside  of  himself,  as  Professor  Werder,  in  his  "  Vorlesungen 
iiber  Shakespeare's  Hamlet,"  has  so  ably  shown,  in  opposition  to 
the  views  of  Goethe,  Coleridge,  and,  in  fact,  of  nearly  all  the 
commentators. 


200  HAMLET. 

The  portion  of  Scene  V.  above  quoted  would  seem,  of  itself,  to 
|  be  quite  sufficient  to  explain  all  the  apparent  mental  aberration 
I  which  Hamlet  exhibits  throughout  the  rest  of  the  Play. 

Another  example  of  the  first  kind  of  testimony  (what  Hamlet 
says  in  a  direct  way  in  regard  to  himself  and  his  actions),  is 
afforded  by  his  speech  to  his  mother,  in  the  4th  Scene  of  the  3d 
Act,  beginning  where  the  Ghost  enters,  i02d  line  : 

"  Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings, 
You  heavenly  guards  !  —  What  would  you,  gracious  figure  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  he's  mad. 

Ham.   Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  laps'd  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command? 
Oh  say. 

Ghost.   Do  not  forget :  This  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But  look,  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits  : 
Oh  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul ; 
Conceit  in  weakest  bodies  strongest  works : 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady? 

Queen.   Alas,  how  is't  with  you? 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse? 
Forth  at  your  eyes  your  spirits  wildly  peep ; 
And  as  the  sleeping  soldiers  in  the  alarm, 
Your  bedded  hair,  like  life  in  excrements, 
Starts  up,  and  stands  an  end.     O  gentle  son, 
Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  thy  distemper 
Sprinkle  cool  patience.    Whereon  do  you  look? 

Ham.   On  him  !  on  him !    Look  you,  how  pale  he  glares ! 
His  form  and  cause  conjoin'd  preaching  to  stones, 
Would  make  them  capable.  —  Do  not  look  upon  me  ; 
Lest  with  this  piteous  action  you  convert 
My  stern  effects  :  then  what  I  have  to  do 
Will  want  true  colour :  tears  perchance  for  blood. 

Queen.   To  whom  do  you  speak  this? 


HAMLET.  201 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.   Nothing  at  all :  yet  all  that  is  I  see. 

Ham.   Nor  did  you  nothing  hear? 

Queen.  No,  nothing  but  ourselves. 

Ham.   Why,  look  you  there  !  look  how  it  steals  away  ! 
My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived ! 
Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  portal ! 

[Exit  GHOST. 

Queen.   This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain  : 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.   Ecstasy? 

My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 
And  makes  as  healthful  music.     It  is  not  madness 
/   That  I  have  uttered  :  bring  me  to  the  test, 
i    And  I  the  matter  will  re-word  ;  which  madness 
\Would  gambol  from. !  Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  a  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness,  speaks  : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place, 
Whilst  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven ; 
Repent  what's  past,  avoid  what  is  to  come, 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  o'er  the  weeds, 
To  make  them  rank.     Forgive  me  this  my  virtue, 
For  in  the  fatness  of  these  pursy  times 
Virtue  itself  of  vice  must  pardon  beg, 
Yea,  curb  and  woo,  for  leave  to  do  him  good. 

Queen.    O  Hamlet,  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain. 

Ham.   O  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good  night :  but  go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed ; 
Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not. 
Refrain  to-night : 

And  that  shall  lend  a  kind  of  easiness 
To  the  next  abstinence  :  the  next  more  easy ; 
For  use  almost  can  change  the  stamp  of  nature, 
And  master  the  devil,  or  throw  him  out 
With  wondrous  potency.     Once  more,  good  night : 


2O2  HAMLET. 

And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  bless'd, 
I'll  blessing  beg  of  you.  —  For  this  same  lord, 

{Pointing  to  POLONIUS. 
I  do  repent ;  but  heaven  hath  pleased  it  so, 
To  punish  me  with  this,  and  this  with  me, 
That  I  must  be  their  scourge  and  minister. 
I  will  bestow  him,  and  will  answer  well 
The  death  I  gave  him.     So  again,  good  night. 
I  must  be  cruel,  only  to  be  kind ; 
Thus  bad  begins,  and  worse  remains  behind." 

And  before  he  leaves  her,  he  enjoins  upon  her  not  to  allow  the 
King  to  get  from  her  his  secret :  "  Let  him  not,"  he  says,  "  make 
you  to  ravel  all  this  matter  out,  that  I  essentially  am  not  in  mad- 
ness, but  mad  in  craft." 

Attention  might  be  called  to  numerous  minor  items  of  evidence 
belonging  to  the  first  class.  There  is  one  little  but  very  significant 
expression  used  by  Hamlet,  in  the  2d  Scene  of  the  3d  Act,  95th 
line,  which  should  be  noted,  as  it  may  be  easily  overlooked  and 
even  misunderstood.  It  occurs  immediately  after  that  healthy, 
robust,  and  noble  speech  of  Hamlet  to  Horatio  in  which  we  have 
a  nice  delineation  of  the  character  of  his  bosom  friend,  and  a 
warm  expression  of  his  high  estimate  of  it : 

"  Ham.   Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  jost  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  cop'd  withal. 

Hor.   O  my  dear  lord. 

Ham.  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter : 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 
That  no  revenue  hast  but  thy  good  spirits, 
To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?    Why  should  the  poor  be  flatter'd  ? 
No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp, 
And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee, 
Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou  hear? 
Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  my  choice, 
And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 
Hath  seal'd  thee  for  herself :  for  thou  hast  been 
As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing; 


HAMLET.  203 

A  man,  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 

Hath  ta'en  with  equal  thanks  :  and  blest  are  those, 

Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  comingled, 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 

To  sound  what  stop  she  please.     Give  me  that  man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 

In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 

As  I  do  thee.     Something  too  much  of  this. 

There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king ; 

One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance 

Which  I  have  told  thee,  of  my  father's  death. 

I  prithee,  when  thou  seest  that  act  a-foot, 

Even  with  the  very  comment  of  my  *  soul 

Observe  mine  uncle :  if  his  occulted  f  guilt 

Do  not  itself  unkennel  in  one  speech, 

It  is  a  damned  ghost  that  we  have  seen ; 

And  my  imaginations  are  as  foul 

As  Vulcan's  stithy.     Give  him  heedful  note : 

For  I  mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face ; 

And  after  we  will  both  our  judgments  join 

To  censure  of  his  seeming. 

Hor.  Well,  my  lord  : 

If  he  steal  aught  the  whilst  this  play  is  playing, 
And  scape  detecting,  I  will  pay  the  theft." 

Hereupon,  the  approach  of  the  King,  Queen,  Courtiers,  and 
others,  is  announced  by  a  flourish,  and  Hamlet  says  to  Horatio, 
"  They  are  coming  to  the  play,  I  must  be  idle :  get  you  a  place." 
That  is,  not  "  unoccupied,"  as  the  careless  reader  might  under- 
stand it,  but  "  foolish,  light-headed,  crazy,"  a  sense  in  which  it  is 


*  My  F1.  Hamlet's  meaning  is,  "  I  would  have  thee  so  enter  into  my  feel- 
ings,  so  identify  thyself  with  me  that,  when  thou  seest  that  act  afoot,  even  with 
the  very  comment  of  my  soul,  thou  wilt  observe  mine  uncle."  The  use  of 
"  my  "  also  gives  force  to  "  even  with  the  very  "  which  has  less  force  in  the 
reading  "  thy  "  of  the  Qq. 

t  Occulted  guilt-.  "All  the  ancient  authors  of  old  time  defined  murder  to 
be  occulta  hominis  occisio,  etc.,  when  it  was  done  in  secret,  so  as  the  offender 
was  not  known;  but  now  it  is  taken  in  a  larger  sense."  —  Coke,  3  Instit.  cap.  7. 


204  HAMLET. 

used  in  many  other  places  in  Shakespeare.*  And  it  is  worthy  of 
notice,  that  for  the  speech  of  the  Queen  in  the  Closet  Scene  (A.  III. 
Sc.  iv.),  and  Hamlet's  reply  thereto,  in  the  zd  and  subsequent 
Quartos,  and  in  the  Folio,  beginning,  "This  is  the  very  coinage 
of  your  brain :  this  bodiless  creation  ecstasy  is  very  cunning  in. 
Ham.  Ecstasy?  My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep 
time,  and  makes  as  healthful  music :  it  is  not  madness  that  I  have 
uttered  :  "  we  have  in  the  original  Quarto  of  1603,  "  Queen.  But 
Hamlet,  this  is  only  fantasy,  and  for  my  love  forget  these  idle 
fits.  Ham.  Idle,  no  mother,  my  pulse  doth  beat  like  yours,  It 
is  not  madness  that  possesseth  Hamlet." 

This  little  speech,  "I  must  be  idle,"  taken  in  connection  with 
the  healthy,  robust,  and  noble  speech  which  immediately  precedes 
and  Hamlet's  conduct  which  immediately  follows,  shows  that  the 
latter  was  prepense,  and  clinches  the  several  testimonies  of  the 
first  class  to  purely  feigned  insanity.  And  it  is  not  refining  too 
much,  to  see  a  significance  in  Hamlet's  saying  to  Horatio,  "  Get 
you  a  place."  The  court  all  know  the  close  intimacy  which  exists 
between  them,  and  Hamlet  does  not  consider  it  politic  that  they 
sit  together.  And  when  the  Queen  invites  him  to  sit  by  her,  he 
replies,  "  No,  good  mother,  here's  metal  more  attractive,"  and 
takes  his  seat  by  Ophelia ;  and  Polonius,  still  adhering  to  his  origi- 
nal opinion  as  to  the  cause  of  Hamlet's  supposed  madness,  says 
aside  to  the  King,  "  Oh,  ho  !  do  you  mark  that?" 

The  second  kind  of  testimony  I've  named,  to  Hamlet's  sanity, 
is  that  afforded  by  the  soliloquies. 

The  several  soliloquies  not  only  show  no  aberration,  in  any 
respect,  but  they,  on  the  contrary,  are  characterized  by  high  and 
coherent  reasoning,  and  profound  wisdom  and  philosophy.  In 
his  soliloquies,  Hamlet  is  his  best  interpreter.  In  them,  his  utter- 
ances are,  of  course,  entirely  uninfluenced  by  policy  or  other 
considerations. 

The  first  soliloquy,  which  he  utters  before  he  has  been  informed 


*  See  Schmidt,  s.v.  3. 


HAMLET. 


2O5 


of  the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost,  "Oh,  that  this  too  too  solid 
flesh  would  melt,"  etc.,  A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  129-158,  is  especially  interesting. 
"  What  Hamlet,  —  I  cannot  say,  has  a  presentiment  of,  but  never- 
theless, what  is  in  him,  dark,  voiceless,  but  yet  there,  wholly  unde- 
fined, but  not  to  be  banished,  and  inborn,  as  it  were,  in  his  nature, 
—  he  does  not  understand,  can  form  no  idea  of  it,  but  he  feels  it ! 
The  atmosphere  of  murder,  which  he  inhales,  which  breathes 
upon  him  from  the  person  of  the  murderer,  the  shuddering  sense 
of  the  ghost  hovering  near,  all  that  awaits  him,  all  that  stands 
ready  at  the  door,  all  that  his  friends  have  brought  to  his  knowl- 
edge, all  that  the  Ghost  has  upon  his  lips  to  say  to  him  ;  the  terror, 
terrible  as  Past  and  as  Future,  —  all  that  is  for  him  here,  and  is 
his  :  all  this  is  in  him  !  This  is  the  burthen  "which  oppresses  him, 
the  immovable  weight  which  he  does  not  yet  understand,  but 
which  he  feels  !  Hence  the  tone  and  coloring  of  this  soliloquy."  * 
It  bears  testimony  to  Hamlet's  susceptibility  to  the  essential 
world.  It  is  not  morbidity  —  it  is  the  finest  healthfumess.  The 
soliloquy  is  an  illustration  of  what  Longfellow  expresses  in  his 
"  Evangeline  "  : 

"  As  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  in  the  limitless  prairie, 
Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking  mimosa, 
So  at  the  hoof-beats  of  Fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of  evil, 
Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has  attained  it." 

The  next  soliloquy  is  that  which  he  utters,  after  the  players  have 
gone  out  (A.  II.  Sc.  ii.  576-634),  they  having  given  him,  as  he  ex- 
presses it,  "a  taste  of  their  quality."  There  is  strong  self-rebuke 
in  it,  and  self-rebuke  doesn't  belong  to  a  madman.  It  belongs  to 
a  man  with  a  keen  moral  sense,  who  does  not,  or,  as  is  the  case 
with  Hamlet,  cannot,  under  opposing  circumstances  (not  by  rea- 
son of  his  own-  nature),  do  the  thing  he  would;  cannot,  in  a 
rational  manner.  And  Hamlet  understands  the  rational  in  the 
case.  A  man  may  unjustly  rebuke  himself;  and  this  Hamlet  does 
in  the  soliloquy  before  us.  "Pray,  have  people,"  says  Werder? 


Karl  Werder, 


2O6  HAMLET. 

"  no  ears  for  the  agony  of  a  human  being,  which  is  so  intolerable 
that  it  drives  him  to  the  extremity  of  falling  out  with  himself;  no 
appreciation  of  a  situation  in  which  righteous  indignation,  because 
it  cannot  reach  its  object,  turns  against  itself,  in  order  to  give 
itself  vent,  and  to  cool  the  heated  sense  of  the  impossibility  of 
acting,  by  self-reproach  and  all  manner  of  self-depreciation?" 
At  the  close  of  the  soliloquy,  Hamlet  says  : 

*'  I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play 
Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul  that  presently 
They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions  : 
For  murther,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  organ.     I'll  have  these  players 
Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father 
Before  mine  uncle :  I'll  observe  his  looks ; 
I'll  tent  him  to  the  quick  :  if  he  but  blench, 
I  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 
May  be  the  devil :  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and  perhaps 
Out  of  my  weakness  and  my  melancholy, 
As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits, 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me :  I'll  have  grounds 
More  relative  than  this  :  the  play's  the  thing 
Wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king." 

Hamlet  believes  that  an  objective,  veritable  ghost  has  appeared 
to  him  ("  Shakespeare  has  with  marked  design  and  care  guarded 
the  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father  against  the  damaging  imputation  of 
subjectivity  ")  ;  *  but  the  suspicion  comes  to  him  that  the  spirit 
he  has  seen  may  be  the  devil,  who  abuses  him  to  damn  him. 
This  suspicion  he  determines  to  test.  The  play  catches  the  con- 
science of  the  King,  and  Hamlet  is  assured  that  it  is  an  honest 
ghost  j  but  (and  this  is  the  important  thing  to  be  noted)  it  does 


*  George  H.  Calvert,  in  his  "  Shakespeare :  a  Biographic,  Esthetic  Study," 
p.  i 60. 


HAMLET.  207 

not  cause  the  King  to  "proclaim  his  malefaction," —  does  not 
have  the  all-important  effect  which  Hamlet  hoped  it  would  have, 
as  is  implied  in  the  words  : 

"  I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play 
Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul  that  presently 
They  have  proclaimed  their  malef actions  " 

Hamlet  is  assured  by  the  play,  of  the  King's  guilt,  and  the  King 
knows  that  he  is  in  possession  of  his  dread  secret.  That  is  all. 
And  the  way  is  consequently  not  yet  open  for  Hamlet  to  act. 
And  because  he  does  not  act,  but  continues  to  show  himself  "  all 
tongue  and  no  hand,"  the  inference  has  been,  as  Klein  humor- 
ously expresses  it,  in  the  "Berliner  Modenspiegel,"  1846,  "that 
the  all-powerful  imagination  of  Shakespeare  was  impregnated  by 
a  miserable  scholastic  abstraction  that  has  not  virility  enough  to 
engender  anything  .  .  .  that  it  was  Shakespeare's  design  to  por- 
tray in  Hamlet  a  German  half-professor,  all  tongue  and  no  hand, 
forever  cackling,  and  hatching  nothing,  like  a  dog  wagging  his  tail 
at  the  sound  of  his  own  barking,  whom  one  would  fain  help  out  of 
his  dream,  like  Polonius,  with  a  '  less  art  and  more  matter  ! '  .  .  . 
that  Shakespeare  had  in  mind  a  pedant  who  perchance  likes  to 
scrawl  flourishes  and  arabesque  abstractions  in  the  schoolroom 
dust,  but  who  is  found  at  heart  to  be  good  for  nothing  when  sum- 
moned to  action,  to  the  business  of  life,  instantly  losing  all  pres- 
ence of  mind,  darting  now  here  and  now  there,  bobbing  now  to 
the  right  and  now  to  the  left,  instead  of  doing,  trying  how  not  to 
do,  running  from  cook  to  tapster,  from  shop  to  shop,  hoping  thus, 
with  the  devil's  aid,  to  make  his  hobby  go,  —  in  the  end,  however, 
bringing  nothing  to  pass,  but  at  the  last,  as  at  the  first,  hanging,  silly 
dunce  that  he  is,  tangled  in  '  the  nothingness  of  reflection  '  ot  his 
own  brain.  It  is  proved  also,  from  the  Hegelian  Bible,  that  Shake- 
speare was  a  right  orthodox  Hegelian,  who  created  Hamlet  in  strict 
accordance  with  the  orthodox  doctrine  of  identity.  It  was  the 
split  between  thought  and  action,  that,  according  to  the  Hegelian 


208  HAMLET. 

idea,  Shakespeare  had  in  mind  in  Hamlet !  According  to  a  ready- 
made  category  of  Hegel's  stamping,  Hamlet  was  fashioned  !  But 
let  the  stamp  go  !  How  about  the  split  ?  How  ?  Why,  does  not 
every  word  in  the  play  speak  of  this  split  ?  Does  not  the  essence 
of  the  tragic  lie  in  this  hunting  down  of  thought  and  act,  this  hide 
and  seek  of  willing  and  doing,  self-stinging  at  one  moment,  and 
then  limp,  languishing  away  into  lazy  melancholy?  O  strange, 
strange,  supremely  strange  !  The  tragic  ?  The  comic,  you 
mean  ! " 

There  are  no  soliloquies  in  Shakespeare  in  which  there  is  so 
perfectly  natural  a  movement  of  the  reflective  faculty  exhibited, 
as  in  that  on  Suicide,  A.  III.  Sc.  i.,  beginning  at  the  56th  line. 
Hamlet  puts  the  question  at  first  in  the  simple,  abstract  form, 
"To  be,  or  not  to  be:  that  is  the  question:"  tljen,  concretely, 
and  in  its  moral  bearing :  "  Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to 
suffer  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune,  or  to  take  arms 
against  a  sea  of  troubles,  and  by  opposing  end  them  ?  "  Having 
put  the  question  in  these  two  forms,  he  considers  what  it  is  to  die  : 
"To  die  :  "  and  after  reflecting  a  moment,  he  answers,  "  to  sleep ; 
no  more."  His  decision  that  to  die  is  to  sleep,  no  more  than 
that,  starts  another  question,  whether,  by  a  sleep  we  shall  "  end  the 
heartache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks  that  flesh  is  heir  to." 
In  the  ist  Folio,  the  note  of  interrogation  is  placed  after  "flesh 
is  heir  to,"  and  this  is  as  it  should  be. 

"  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to  ? " 

Upon  which  he  remarks,  consonantly  with  his  present  sadness  : 

"  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished." 

He  then  iterates  to  the  point  he  has  reached :  "  To  die,  to 
sleep." 

His  mind  then  passes  to  an  idea  suggested  by  "  sleep  "  : 


HAMLET.  2O9 

"  To  sleep  :  perchance  to  dream  !  ay,  there's  the  rub ;  " 

("  rub  "  is  a  term  of  the  game  of  bowls,  meaning  a  collision  hin- 
dering the  bowl  in  its  course  ;  hence,  any  obstacle  or  impediment.) 

"  Ay,  there's  the  rub ; " 
And  why  ? 

"  For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come," 

("  what "  is  the  emphatic  word  here ;  the  question  is,  what  will 
be  the  nature  of  those  dreams  ?  Will  they  be  happy,  or  will  they 
be  unhappy,  dreams?) 

"  For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil," 

(this  entanglement,  turmoil  of  earthly  life,  or,  it  may  be,  this  coil 
of  flesh,  "  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay,") 

"  For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  :  " 

Then  the  general  result  of  this  last  reflection,  is  set  forth,  and 
what  would  be  the  result  were  it  not  for  this  restraining  considera- 
tion : 

"  there's  the  respect  [consideration] 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressors  wrong,  the  poor  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love," 

so  the  Folio  reads,  and  it  is  a  better  reading  than  "  despised  "  of 
the  Qq.  A  disprized  or  undervalued  love,  a  love  that  is  only  par- 
tially appreciated  and  responded  to,  would  be  apt  to  suffer  more 
pangs  than  a  despised  love  : 

"  The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin?" 


2IO  HAMLET. 

"Quietus  is  the  technical  term  for  the  acquittance  which  every 
sheriff  or  accountant  receives  on  settling  his  accounts  at  the  Ex- 
chequer. The  mention  of  the  law's  delay  introduced  the  idea  of 
proceedings  in  the  courts  of  law,  which  led  him  to  think  of  the 
Exchequer.  Many  an  accountant  in  that  court  has  longed  for 

his  quietus" 

"  Who  would  these  fardels  bear, 

To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life," 

(the  Folio  reading  and  the  correct  reading)  :  the  fardels  are 
the  burdens  before  spoken  of,  the  whips  and  scorns,  the  oppres- 
sor's wrong,  and  the  other  evils  he  had  specified.  Having  said, 
who  would  bear  (the  several  things  he  specifies)  he  repeats,  who 
would  bear  these  fardels  (representing  all  the  specified  ones)  for 
the  purpose  of  introducing  the  exceptive  clause, 

"  But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 
The  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  ?  " 

It's  surprising  that  the  word  these,  before  fardels,  should  be 
omitted  in  all  the  so-called  critical  texts,  with  only  two  or  three 
exceptions. 

"  Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; " 

"  Conscience  "  seems  to  be  used  here  in  the  sense  of  conscious- 
ness in  general,  private  judgment,  inmost  thoughts. 

"  Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  [natural  color]  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought," 

thought  is  care,  anxiety,  melancholy,  whose  hue  is  pale. 

"  And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  {i.e.,  of  the  future]  their  currents  turn  away, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action."  * 

*  See  "  Jottings  on  the  Text  of  Hamlet,"  p.  344  of  this  volume. 


HAMLET.  211 

And  then  noticing  Ophelia,  he  says  : 

"  Soft  you  now !     The  fair  Ophelia  ?  — 
Nymph,  in  thy  orisons  be  all  my  sins  remembered." 

"  This,"  says  Johnson,  "  is  a  touch  of  nature.  Hamlet,  at  the 
sight  of  Ophelia,  does  not  immediately  recollect  that  he  is  to  per- 
sonate madness,  but  makes  her  an  address  grave  and  solemn,  such 
as  the  foregoing  meditation  excited  in  his  thoughts." 
f  I  have  dwelt  thus  Ipng  on  this  celebrated  soliloquy,  to  show  how 
closely  and  subtly  s&$8amts  ttgTllere  we  have  the  real.  Ham- 
let. In  the  dialogue  which  immediately  follows,  with  Ophelia,  we 
have  the  assumed  Hamlet,  Hamlet  with  "an  antic  disposition 
on."  It  is  evident  that  the  poet  advisedly  brought  together  this 
closely  and  subtly  sequacious  soliloquy  and  his  talk  with  Ophelia, 
which  to  her  indicates  that  his  once  "  noble  and  most  sovereign 
reason  "  is  now  "like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune,  arid  harsh," 
for  the  purpose  of  strongly  contrasting  the  real  and  the  assumed 
Hamlet.  So  viewed,  nothing  could  be  more  dramatically  proper ; 
nor  more  in  Shakespeare's  manner ;  while  nothing  could  be  more 
dramatically  improper,  if  his  talk  with  Ophelia  be  regarded  as 
indicative  of  real  mental  aberration ;  even  if  it  be  shown  to  be 
scientific  that  a  man  can  be  the  soundest,  subtlest  reasoner  one 
moment,  and  the  very  next  moment  have  his  faculties  all  in  a 
jumble.  For  Hamlet  is  a  work  of  dramatic  art,  and  not  a  scien- 
tific treatise.  Some  of  the  experts  in  insanity  who  have  treated 
the  subject  of  Hamlet's  mental  condition,  have  lost  sight  of  this 
fact.  Shakespeare  is  the  supreme  artist ;  and  whatever  else  he  is, 
he  is  first  and  last  the  artist ;  and  he  would  not,  could  not,  have 
made  the  idea  of  one  of  his  greatest  productions  centre  in  a  man 
vibrating  rapidly  between  reason  and  unreason.  s 

The  last  soliloquy  to  which  I  would  call  attention  is  that  in  the 
4th  Scene  of  the  4th  Act,  which  Hamlet  utters  after  meeting  with 
and  questioning  the  Captain  whom  Fortinbras  has  sent  to  greet 
the  Danish  King  and  to  crave  the  conveyance  of  a  promised 
march  over  his  kingdom  (11.  9-66). 


212  HAMLET. 

Here  we  have  again  strong  self-rebuke.  But  it  must  not  be 
explained  on  the  theory  of  Hamlet's  indisposition  to  action,  much 
as  it  may  appear  to  support  that  theory.* 

Swinburne  justly  pronounces  this  "the  supreme  soliloquy  of 
Hamlet."  "  Magnificent,"  he  says,  "  as  is  that  monologue  on  sui- 
cide and  doubt  ...  it  is  actually  eclipsed  and  distanced  at  once 
on  philosophic  and  on  poetical  grounds  by  the  later  soliloquy  on 
reason  and  resolution." 

The  third  kind  of  evidence  against  the  theory  of  Hamlet's  insan- 
ity is  that  derived  from  the  interviews  he  has  with  his  bosom-friend 
and  only  confidant,  Horatio.  In  these  interviews,  he  is  uniformly 
rational,  and  his  speeches  are  freighted  with  wisdom,  and  show  a 
deep  insight  into  life  and  its  mysteries  —  a  deep  insight  due  to 
that  spiritual  susceptibility  indicated  in  the  ist  soliloquy,  "Oh,  that 
•this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt"  (A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  129),  when  com- 
ing events  cast  their  shadows  upon  him,  and  he  feels  their  shadows 
ere  he  knows  from  what  they  are  cast  —  a  deep  insight  which 
made  him  cognizant  of  more  things  than  are  dreamt  of  in  human 
philosophy,  and  which  caused  him  to  feel  deeply,  "  what  a  piece 
of  work  is  a  man  !  how  noble  in  reason  !  how  infinite  in  faculty  ! 
...  in  apprehension,  how  like  a  god  !  " 

And  Horatio  shows  nowhere  in  the  play  that  he  at  any  time 
has  the  faintest  suspicion  of  any  mental  aberration  on  the  part  of 
Hamlet.  Their  perfect  faith  in  each  other,  to  the  end,  is  very 
beautiful.  After  Hamlet  has  received  his  death-wound  from  the 
envenomed  sword  of  Laertes,  he  says  :  "  Horatio,  I  am  dead ; 
Thou  livest ;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright  to  the  unsatisfied.  .  .  . 
O  good  Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name  things  standing  thus  un- 
known, shall  live  behind  me  !  "  This  last  anxiety  of  the  dying 
Hamlet  about  leaving  a  wounded  name,  reflects  the  idea  of  the 
play  so  fully  and,  as  I  think,  conclusively  set  forth  by  Professor 
Werder.  Hamlet  had  to  revenge  a  secret  murder  of  which  he 


*  I  must  refer  the  student  to  Karl  Werder's  interpretation  of  this  soliloquy 
given  in  Dr.  Furness's  "  New  Variorum  Edition  of  Hamlet,"  Vol.  II.  p.  366. 


HAMLET.  213 

could  produce  no  material  proof,  no  proof  that  would  be  accepted! 
—  only  the  testimony  of  a  ghost,  whose  testimony  no  one  but  him-j 
self  heard;  and  without  producing  this  material  proof,  unveiling' 
the  secret  murder,  or  forcing  the  King  to  a  full  confession,  to 
have  assassinated  the  King  would  have  been  utterly  irrational :  as 
utterly  irrational  as  is  the  assumption  implied  in  a  large  body  of 
criticism  on  the  play  that  but  for  Hamlet's  incapacity  for  action, 
he  would  have  killed  the  King.  Nonsense.  And  there  is  no 
evidence  that  Hamlet  was  restrained  by  moral  scruples,  that  an 
abhorrence  of  the  deed  restrained  him.  But  there  is  evidence 
that  his  reason,  his  common  sense,  restrained  him.  True  ven- 
geance demanded  that  full  proof  of  the  King's  guilt  should  be 
afforded  the  court  and  the  people  of  Denmark ;  and  it  was  true 
vengeance  which  was  required  by  the  Ghost  and  which  Hamlet 
sought.  And  now  when  Fate  makes  him  the  slayer  of  the  King, 
he  entreats  his  friend  Horatio,  in  his  last  moments,  to  set  him 
right  before  the  world  : 

"  If  them  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 
To  tell  my  story." 

Experts  in  insanity  have  testified  to  the  genuineness  of  Hamlet's 
aberration.  Well,  if  the  phenomena  be  such  as  to  cause  experts 
to  pronounce  his  "antic  disposition  "  genuine  insanity,  what  of  it, 
more  than  that  Shakespeare  knew  the  phenomena  of  genuine  in- 
sanity, and  in  making  Hamlet  feign  insanity,  made  the  feigning 
as  like  as  possible  to  the  real  thing.  If  the  feigning  is  meant  to 
serve  any  purpose  at  all,  the  more  successful  it  is  the  better. 

I  am  disposed  to  think  that  Coleridge  and  Goethe,  by  the  sub- 
stantially similar  theories  they  advanced,  in  regard  to  the  man, 
Hamlet,  contributed  more,  especially  Goethe  (as  he  exercised  a 
wider  authority  than  Coleridge),  toward  shutting  off  a  sound  criti- 
cism of  the  play,  than  any  other  critics  or  any  other  cause.  Their 
dicta  were  generally  accepted  as  quite  final ;  and  many  a  Shake- 


214  HAMLET. 

speare  student,  now  living,  whatever  his  present  views  may  be, 
can  remember  when  he  so  accepted  them,  and  had  not  a  glimmer 
of  suspicion  that  in  the  main  they  might  be  wide  of  the  mark. 

Goethe's  "  Wilhelm  Meister's  Lehrjahre,"  which  contained  his 
celebrated  criticism  on  Hamlet,  was  given  to  the  world  in  1795. 
But  it  was  probably  not  read  in  England  until  Carlyle's  translation 
of  it  appeared,  in  1824,  or  thereabout. 

Mr.  Coleridge  delivered  his  Lectures  on  Shakespeare  in  the 
winter  of  1811-12,  and  for  what  we  possess  of  them  we  are  chiefly 
indebted  to  J.  Payne  Collier,  who  took  short- hand  notes  of  a  por- 
tion of  the  Course,  which  extended  to  17  lectures,  two  or  three 
being  on  Milton.  Philosophical  criticism  was  then  in  its  infancy ; 
and  Coleridge's  Lectures  were  regarded,  and  in  many  respects 
justly  regarded,  as  new  revelations  of  Shakespeare's  power,  espe- 
cially as  an  artist.  Previous  to  that  time,  the  material  of  Shake- 
speare's Plays  was  chiefly  regarded  as  constituting  their  greatness. 
That  he  was  the  master-artist  was  hardly  yet  suspected. 

Let  us  turn,  for  a  moment,  to  the  view  taken  by  Goethe,  of 
Hamlet,  in  his  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  Book  V.  I  give  Carlyle's 
translation : 

"  Figure  to  yourselves  this  youth,  this  son  of  princes,  conceive 
him  vividly,  bring  his  condition  before  your  eyes,  and  then  ob- 
serve him  when  he  learns  that  his  father's  spirit  walks ;  stand  by 
him  in  the  terrible  night  when  the  venerable  Ghost  itself  appears 
before  him.  A  horrid  shudder  seizes  him  ;  he  speaks  to  the  mys- 
terious form ;  he  sees  it  beckon  him ;  he  follows  it  and  hearkens. 
The  fearful  accusation  of  his  uncle  rings  in  his  ears ;  the  summons 
to  revenge  and  the  piercing  reiterated  prayer  :  '  Remember  me  ! ' 
And  when  the  Ghost  has  vanished,  whom  is  it  we  see  standing 
before  us  ?  A  young  hero  panting  for  vengeance  ?  A  born  prince, 
feeling  himself  favored  in  being  summoned  to  punish  the  usurper 
of  his  crown  ?  No  !  Amazement  and  sorrow  overwhelm  the  sol- 
itary young  man  ;  he  becomes  bitter  against  smiling  villains,  swears 
never  to  forget  the  departed,  and  concludes  with  the  significant 
ejaculation  :  '  The  time  is  out  of  joint :  O  cursed  spite,  That  ever 


HAMLET.  21$ 

I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! '  In  these  words,  I  imagine,  is  the 
key  to  Hamlet's  whole  procedure,  and  to  me  it  is  clear  that  Shake- 
speare sought  to  depict  a  great  deed  laid  upon  a  soul  unequal  to 
the  performance  of  it.  In  this  view  I  find  the  piece  composed 
throughout.  Here  is  an  oak  tree  planted  in  a  costly  vase,  which 
should  have  received  in  its  bosom  only  lovely  flowers ;  the  roots 
spread  out,  the  vase  is  shivered  to  pieces.  A  beautiful,  pure, 
noble,  and  most  moral  nature,  without  the  strength  of  nerve  which 
makes  the  hero,  sinks  beneath  a  burden  which  it  can  neither  bear 
nor  throw  off;  every  duty  is  holy  to  him,  —  this,  too  hard.  The 
impossible  is  required  of  him,  —  not  the  impossible  in  itself,  but 
the  impossible  to  him.  How  he  winds,  turns,  agonizes,  advances 
and  recoils,  ever  reminded,  ever  reminding  himself,  and  at  last 
almost  loses  his  purpose  from  his  thoughts,  without  ever  again 
recovering  his  peace  of  mind." 

Here,  it  will  be  observed,  the  difficulty  of  Hamlet's  situation  is 
attributed  entirely  to  subjective  causes  :  it  lies  within  Hamlet  him- 
self. "  The  impossible,"  Goethe  says,  "  is  required  of  him,  — not 
the  impossible  in  itself,  but  the  impossible  to  him."  All  which  is 
equivalent  to  saying,  if  Hamlet  were  other  than  he  is,  the  thing 
could  be  easily  enough  done. 

To  turn  now  to  Coleridge's  view,  which  we  shall  see  is  substan- 
tially the  same  as  that  of  Goethe.  The  difficulty  of  Hamlet's 
situation  he  attributes  wholly  to  subjective  causes.  He  says  :  "  I 
believe  the  character  of  Hamlet  might  be  traced  to  Shakespeare's 
deep  and  accurate  science  in  mental  philosophy.  Indeed,  that 
this  character  must  have  some  connection  with  the  common  fun- 
damental laws  of  our  nature  may  be  assumed  from  the  fact  that 
Hamlet  has  been  the  darling  of  every  country  in  which  the  litera- 
ture of  England  has  been  fostered.  In  order  to  understand  him, 
it  is  essential  that  we  should  reflect  on  the  constitution  of  our  own 
minds.  Man  is  distinguished  from  the  brute  animals  in  propor- 
tion as  thought  prevails  over  sense  :  but  in  the  healthy  processes 
of  the  mind,  a  balance  is  constantly  maintained  between  impres- 
sions from  outward  objects  and  the  inward  operations  of  the  intel- 


2l6  HAMLET. 

lect ;  —  for  if  there  be  an  overbalance  in  the  contemplative  faculty, 
man  thereby  becomes  the  creature  of  mere  meditation,  and  loses 
his  natural  power  of  action." 

Coleridge  here  gives  an  admirable  description  of  himself;  but 
it  is  not  applicable  to  Hamlet's  case.  He  adds  the  following 
startling  statement : 

"  Now  one  of  Shakespeare's  modes  of  creating  characters  is,  to 
conceive  any  one  intellectual  or  moral  faculty  in  morbid  excess, 
and  then  to  place  himself,  Shakespeare  thus  mutilated  or  diseased, 
under  given  circumstances" 

Macaulay  more  truly  says,  in  his  Article  on  Madame  D'Arblay, 
that  "  it  is  the  constant  manner  of  Shakespeare  to  represent  the 
human  mind  as  lying,  not  under  the  absolute  dominion  of  one 
domestic  propensity,  but  under  a  mixed  government,  in  which  a 
hundred  powers  balance  each  other.  Admirable  as  he  was  in  all 
points  of  his  art,  we  most  admire  him  for  this,  that,  while  he  has 
left  us  a  greater  number  of  striking  portraits  than  all  other  drama- 
tists put  together,  he  has  scarcely  left  us  a  single  caricature." 
But  would  not  such  a  mode  of  creating  character  as  Coleridge 
ascribes  to  him  result  in  caricature  ?  And  in  caricature  only  ?  It 
certainly  would.  That  is  rather  Ben  Jonson's  mode  of  creating 
character.  He  personifies  autocratic  moods  and  humors,  and 
does  not,  therefore,  attain  to  complete  personalities,  actuated  by  a 
subtle  complexity  of  motives,  and  exhibiting  what  Dowden  calls 
"the  mystery  of  vital  movement." 

"  In  Hamlet,"  Coleridge  continues,  "  he  [Shakespeare]  seems 
to  have  wished  to  exemplify  the  moral  necessity  of  a  due  balance 
between  our  attention  to  the  objects  of  our  senses  and  our  medita- 
tion on  the  workings  of  our  minds,  —  an  equilibrium  between  the 
real  and  the  imaginary  worlds." 

Is  not  such  a  view,  I  would  ask,  by  the  way,  un-Shakespearian — 
that  Shakespeare  wished  to  exemplify,  etc.  ?  One  is  likely  to  go 
astray  when  he  sees,  or  looks  for,  abstract  notions  operating  in  a 
play  of  Shakespeare. 

"  In  Hamlet/'  Coleridge  continues,  "this  balance  is  disturbed; 


HAMLET.  217 

his  thoughts  and  the  images  of  his  fancy  are'  far  more  vivid  than 
his  actual  perceptions,  and  his  very  perceptions,  instantly  passing 
through  the  medium  of  his  contemplations,  acquire,  as  they  pass, 
a  form  and  a  color  not  naturally  their  own.  Hence  we  see  a 
great,  an  almost  enormous,  intellectual  activity,  and  a  propor- 
tionate aversion  to  real  action  consequent  upon  it,  with  all  its 
symptoms  and  accompanying  qualities.  This  character  Shake- 
speare places  in  circumstances  under  which  he  is  obliged  to  act 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  [  !  ]  :  Hamlet  is  brave  and  careless  of 
death ;  but  he  vacillates  from  sensibility,  and  procrastinates  from 
thought,  and  loses  the  power  of  action  in  the  energy  of  resolve." 

This  is  as  explicit  and  emphatic  as  it  can  be  made.  The  diffi- 
culty with  Hamlet,  according  to  Coleridge,  is  a  wholly  subjective  one 
—  "a  great,  an  almost  enormous  intellectual  activity  "  inducing  " a 
proportionate  aversion  to  real  action."  And  this  statement,  strong 
as  it  is,  is  even  emphasized  by  the  statement  that  "  Hamlet  is  brave 
and  careless  of  death"  His  bravery  and  his  disregard  of  death 
are  not  sufficient  to  overcome  his  aversion  to  action  induced  by 
his  intellectual  activity  —  although  the  call  for  action  has  come 
from  the  spirit  of  an  honored  father,  of  blessed  memory,  who  was 
"  of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  dispatch'd  "  ;  who  was  to  the 
one  who  occupies  the  throne,  "  Hyperion  to  a  satyr  !  "  If  this  is 
a  true  characterization  of  Hamlet,  what  a  monstrosity  he  is  !  the 
greatest  monstrosity  to  be  found  in  all  dramatic  literature.  And 
such  a  monstrosity,  we  are  told,  by  Coleridge  himself,  "  has  been 
the  darling  of  every  country  in  which  the  literature  of  England  has 
been  fostered."  Why,  if  an  enormous  intellectual  activity  can 
possibly  have  such  dire  consequences  as  to  bind  a  man  hand  and 
foot,  and  thus  to  disable  him  from  performing  the  most  sacred 
duties,  there  should  be  placarded,  in  colossal  and  glaring  letters, 
at  all  the  corners  of  our  streets,  for  all  men  to  read,  BEWARE 
OF  AN  ENORMOUS  INTELLECTUAL  ACTIVITY.  We 
should  shut  up  all  our  colleges  and  universities,  for  fear  that  many 
young  men  and  young  women,  through  the  intellectual  stimulant 
these  institutions  afford,  might  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  attain  to 


210  HAMLET. 

an  enormous  intellectual  activity.  Why,  in  the  name  of  every- 
thing that's  reasonable,  where's  the  dramatic  interest  to  come 
from,  with  such  an  irredeemable  do-nothing  for  the  hero  of  the 
drama  as  Coleridge  represents  Hamlet  to  be  ?  Whatever  interest 
such  a  man  might  have  for  the  mental  philosopher,  it's  the  dra- 
matic interest  we  must  always  look  for,  in  a  play  of  Shakespeare. 
Shakespeare  is  a  dramatist,  and  always  a  dramatist,  not  a  psychol- 
ogist. And  we  shall  always  find  a  true  dramatic  interest  in  his 
plays,  if  we  look  for  it  aright. 

Before  Coleridge  delivered  his  lectures  in  London,  Aug.  Wilh. 
Schlegel  had  given  his  on  Dramatic  Art  and  Literature,  in  Vienna, 
in  1808,  which  were  published  under  the  title,  "  Vorlesungen  iiber 
dramatische  Kunst  und  Literatur,"  1809.  It  was  thought  that  Cole- 
ridge was  indebted  to  him,  by  reason  of  certain  striking  similar- 
ities of  view.  But  there's  no  evidence  of  such  indebtedness.  The 
evidence  rather  is  that  he  was  not  indebted  to  Schlegel,  and  that 
evidence  comes  from  Hazlitt,  who  disliked  Coleridge.  He  says  : 
"  I  myself  heard  the  very  same  character  of  Hamlet  from  Cole- 
ridge before  he  went  to  Germany  (that  was  in  1798)  and  when 
he  had  neither  read  nor  could  read  a  page  of  German." 

Schlegel's  view  of  Hamlet  is,  in  the  main,  that  of  Goethe  and 
Coleridge,  namely,  to  put  it  in  the  most  general  way,  that  Ham- 
let's not  carrying  out  the  injunction  of  his  father's  ghost  was  due 
to  subjective  causes,  and  not  to  objective  obstacles.  One  sen- 
tence from  Schlegel  will  be  sufficient  to  show  this.  "  The  whole," 
he  says,  "  is  intended  to  show  that  a  calculating  consideration, 
which  exhausts  all  the  relations  and  possible  consequences  of  a 
deed,  must  cripple  the  power  of  acting"  I  would  remark  here, 
by  the  way,  that  it  can  never  be  truly  said  of  any  play  of  Shake- 
speare, that,  to  use  Schlegel's  expression,  "  the  whole  is  intended 
to  show  "  this,  that,  or  the  other.  That  would  imply  that  his  work 
moves  under  the  condition  of  a  notion  of  some  kind ;  that  he 
started  with  an  abstraction,  and  that  that  abstraction  determined 
the  movement  of  his  work.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  we  are  told  by 
a  large  number  of  prominent  commentators,  among  them  being 


HAMLET.  219 

Gervinus,  Ulrici,  Coleridge,  Hallam,  Maginn,  Mezieres,  Taine, 
Tieck,  "is  intended  to  show"  the  bad  consequences  of  excess, 
and  the  importance  of  moderation. 

Neither  Goethe,  Coleridge,  nor  Schlegel  intimate,  even,  the 
objective  theory  in  regard  to  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet  (the  only 
theory  consonant  with  the  Shakespearian  dramatic  art),  which 
Karl  Werder  has  so  elaborately  developed  in  his  "Vorlesungen 
liber  Shakespeare's  Hamlet,"*  Berlin,  1875.  Horace  Howard 
Furness  pronounces  Werder's  volume  on  Hamlet  the  most  note- 
worthy that  has  appeared  in  Germany,  although  its  main  idea  is 
found  in  Klein's  article  in  the  Berliner  Modenspiegel,  1846 ;  and 
George  Fletcher  has  distinctly  indicated  it,  in  a  paragraph  of  his 
criticism  on  Romeo  and  Juliet,  p.  288  of  his  "  Studies  of  Shake- 
speare," London,  1847.  It  *s  to  De  regretted  that  this  sagacious 
critic's  "Studies  of  Shakespeare  in  the  play  of  Hamlet,  with 
observations  on  the  criticism  and  the  acting  of  that  play,"  an- 
nounced as  in  preparation,  at  the  end  of  the  former  work,  never 
appeared.  No  English  critic,  perhaps,  ever  understood  better  the 
constitution  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  than  did  George  Fletcher. 

The  objective  theory,  briefly  stated,  is,  that  the  obstacles  to 
Hamlet's  carrying  out  the  injunction  of  the  Ghost  are  wholly 
objective  —  that  he  has  the  power  of  acting,  plenty  of  it,  and  all 
other  powers  in  an  eminent  degree,  required  for  what  has  been 
enjoined  upon  him  to  do,  but  he  cannot  achieve  a  true  revenge 
by  simply  assassinating  the  King.  He  has  a  secret  murder  to 
deal  with ;  and  that  secret  murder  must  first  be  unveiled  to  the 
court  and  the  people,  before  a  rational  revenge  is  possible  — 
before  he  can,  in  a  true  sense,  fulfil  the  duty  which  has  been 
imposed  upon  him  by  the  ghost  of  his  father. 

The  theory  of  Hamlet's  constitutional  aversion  to  real  activity, 
so  strongly  put  by  Coleridge,  is  pushed  to  the  absurd  by  a  writer 


*  Dr.  Horace  Howard  Furness  has  given,  in  his  "New  Variorum  Edition  of 
Hamlet,"  large  extracts  from  Werder's  "Vorlesungen,"  which  embrace  the 
entire  dramatic  action  of  Hamlet,  as  set  forth  by  him.  To  these  extracts 
students  are  referred.  They  are  contained  in  Vol.  II.  pp.  354-371. 


220  HAMLET. 

in  the  Popular  Science  Monthly,  for  May,  1880,  pp.  60-71.  His 
article  is  entitled  "The  Impediment  of  Adipose  —  a  celebrated 
case,"  the  celebrated  case  being  that  of  our  friend,  Hamlet,  who, 
he  says,  is  described  with  one  dash  of  the  pen :  "  He's  fat  and 
scant  of  breath."  This  is  that  "  unknown  quantity  "  which  con- 
founded Schlegel,  and  which  Goethe  thought  he  had  found  in  the 

lines : 

"  The  time  is  out  of  joint ;  O  cursed  spite ! 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right." 

Poor  Hamlet  (strange  that  nobody  ever  discovered  it  before) 
is  weighted  down  with  a  non-executive  or  lymphatic  temperament. 
By  reason  of  his  fatness  and  his  scantness  of  breath,  he  lacks  the 
energizing  temperament,  without  which  the  brain  is  but  a  dumb 
mass  of  latent  possibilities.  His  procrastination  is  the  result  of 
his  "too  too  solid  flesh."  But  for  that  burden  of  adipose  sub- 
stance, he  were  simply  the  most  active  fellow  in  Europe.  He  is 
afflicted  with  a  spherical  obesity,  as  is  indicated  by  his  reply  to 
the  Ghost's  "  Remember  me  :  "  "  Remember  thee  !  Ay,  thou  poor 
Ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat  in  this  distracted  globe"  This 
obesity  is  also  indicated  in  the  speech  of  Ophelia  : 

"  He  raised  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound 
As  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk? 

We  are  informed  in  a  footnote  that  medical  men  regard  fre- 
quent sighing  as  a  sign  of  heart  disease,  caused  by  superfluous  fat. 
Ophelia  also  speaks  of  him  as  "pale  as  his  shirt",::  pd  paleness, 
the  writer  informs  us,  is  a  symptom  of  anaemic  aaipose.  But  she 
gives  no  hint  that,  like  Falstaff,  he  has  fallen  away  vilely.  If  such 
had  been  the  case,  it  would  have  been  the  first  thing  to  attract 
the  attention  of  a  young  lady  who  believed  orre  m^d  for  the  love 
of  her.  No ;  neither  love  nor  lunacy  has  tol''  ^e  least  on  his 
"  bulk." 

In  A.  V.  Sc.  ii.  282,  the  King  drinks  "  to  Hamlet's  better  breath  "; 
and  the  queen-mother  makes  the  exclamation,  which  is  taken  as 
the  keynote  of  this  adipose  theory,  "  He's  fat  and  scant  of  breath  "  ; 


HAMLET.  221 

and  then  adds,  "  Here,  Hamlet,  take  my  napkin,  rub  thy  brows." 
And  a  little  further  on  she  says,  "  Come,  let  me  wipe  thy  face." 
Can  we  not  see,  says  the  writer,  the  perspiration  trickling  over  the 
broad,  heavy  cheeks,  as  we  read  these  lines  ?  It  was  surely  from 
experience  that  he  spoke  of  sweating  and  grunting  under  a  weary 
life. 

Our  attention  is  also  called  to  the  fact  that  when  Hamlet  takes 
his  leisurely  walk  in  the  hall,  this  quiet  exercise  goes  under  no 
other  name  than  a  "breathing  time";  and  when  his  obesity  is 
considered,  how  apt  appears  his  reply  to  Osric  :  "  Sir,  I  will  walk 
here  in  the  hall ;  if  it  please  his  majesty,  this  is  the  breathing- time 
of  day  with  me." 

The  testimony  as  to  the  torpid  condition  of  the  Prince,  conse- 
quent upon  his  fatness,  and  his  scantness  of  breath,  is  not  yet  at 
an  end.  When  Horatio  says,  "You  will  lose  this  wager,  my  lord," 
Hamlet  replies,  "  I  do  not  think  so ;  ...  I  shall  win  at  the  odds. 
But  thou  would'st  not  think  how  ill  all's  here  about  my  heart ; 
but  it  is  no  matter."  Just  such  an  answer,  the  writer  informs  us, 
as  a  person  might  make  who  was  suffering  from  fatty  degeneration ; 
the  consideration  6f  the  unpleasant  possibilities  of  the  duel  had 
brought  the  action  of  the  heart  almost  to  a  standstill  —  the  result 
of  a  chronic  sluggish  circulatory  system. 

The  consequences  of  poor  Hamlet's  unfortunate  physical  condi- 
tion is  summed  uprby  the  writer  in  the  following  sentence  :  "The 
fine  spirit,  the  clear  insight,  the  keen  reader  of  other  men's  thoughts 
is  imprisone^  m  walls  of  adipose,  and  the  desire  for  action  dies 
out  with  the  utterance  of  wise  maxims,  philosophic  doubts,  and 
morbid  upbraidings  of  his  own  inertness." 

Any  explanation  of  the  man  Hamlet,  which  proceeds  upon  the 
assumption  of ':'"'  t  eories  of  Goethe  and  Coleridge,  must  be  as 
wide  of  the  mark  as'  is  this,  though  it  may  not  be  so  fleshly.  And 
there'll  be  no  end  to  such  criticism  until  there's  a  general  recogni- 
tion among  Shakespeare  scholars  of  what  constitutes  the  real  diffi- 
culty of  the  situation  in  which  Hamlet  is  placed,  —  a  difficulty 
entirely  independent  of  his  own  intellectual  and  spiritual  tempera- 


222  HAMLET. 

ment,  but  a  difficulty  especially  fitted  to  bring  that  temperament 
into  the  fullest  play.  And  I  would  add  that  the  reader  of  the 
tragedy  whose  interest  is  in  the  subjective  Hamlet,  rather  than  in 
the  dramatic  action,  must  recognize  the  fact  that  the  subjective 
Hamlet  —  all  the  thoughts,  and  musings,  and  feelings,  which  so 
interest  that  reader  —  becomes  doubly  interesting  when  he  knows 
its  relation  to  the  objective  difficulty. 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  22$ 


THE   WITCH    AGENCY    IN    MACBETH. 


THE  two  all-important  things  to  be  considered  in  the  Tragedy 
of  Macbeth,  are,  i,  the  relations  of  the  Witches  to  Mac- 
beth, and  2,  the  relations  of  Lady  Macbeth  to  Macbeth,  in  his 
career  of  ambition. 

The  following  bits  of  commentary  express  the  usual  understand- 
ing of  the  agency  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth  :  "  He  is  tempted," 
says  Hazlitt,  "  to  the  commission  of  guilt  by  golden  opportunities., 
by  the  instigations  of  his  wife,  and  by  prophetic  warnings.  Fate 
and  metaphysical  aid  conspire  against  his  virtue  and  his  loyalty." 
"Shakespeare's  witches,"  says  Charles  Lamb,  " orignate  deeds  of 
blood,  and  begin  bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  moment  that 
their  eyes  first  meet  with  Macbeth's,  he  is  spell-bound.  That 
meeting  sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break  the  fascination." 

"The  first  thought  of  acceding  to  the  throne,"  says  Thomas 
Whateley,  "  is  suggested,  and  success  in  the  attempt  is  promised, 
to-  Macbeth  by  the  witches ;  he  is  therefore  represented  as  a  man 
whose  natural  temper  would  have  deterred  him  from  such  a  design 
if  he  had  not  been  immediately  tempted  and  strongly  impelled  to 
it." 

In  the  first  place  it  may  be  said  that  such  views  are  inconsist 
ent  with  the  whole  theory  of  the  entire  Shakespearian  drama. 
Shakespeare  never  presents  a  character  to  us  as  a  victim  of  fate 
at  the  outset.  The  fatalism  of  passion  is  exhibited  in  all  his  great 
tragedies ;  but  those  characters  through  whom  it  is  exhibited  be- 
gin their  several  careers  as  free  agents.  A  true  dramatic  interest 
demands  this.  As  a  great  passion  is  evolved,  it  destroys  more 
and  more  the  power  of  self-assertion,  and  its  victim  is  finally 


224  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

swept  passively  and  helplessly  along.  Only  free  agency  is  dra- 
matic. 

The  weird  sisters  represent  the  night  side  of  nature,  the  powers 
of  evil  which  are  ever  attracted  to  the  soul  whose  elective  affini- 
ties favor  such  attraction.  The  devil  visits  those  only  who  invite 
him  in.  "They  who  lack  energy  of  goodness,"  says  Dowden, 
"and  drop  into  a  languid  neutrality  between  the  antagonist  spirit- 
ual forces  of  the  world,  must  serve  the  devil  as  slaves,  if  they  will 
not  decide  to  serve  God  as  freemen." 

The  power  of  the  weird  sisters  is  nowhere  in  the  tragedy  exhib- 
ited as  absolute,  but  always  as  relative.  It  is  shown  to  depend 
upon  what  in  a  man's  soul  has  affinities  for  that  power.  Where 
these  affinities  do  not  exist,  their  power  is  nought.  But  where 
they  do  exist,  these  outside  evil  forces  are  as  quick  to  respond  to 
them  as  Sin  and  Death  in  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost"  are  repre- 
sented to  have  been.  Even  before  the  newly-created  pair  sinned, 
before  the  connatural  forces  started  in  them  and  were  realized  in 
act,  Sin  is  made  to  say  to  Death,  as  they  sit  together  within  the 
gates  of  hell,  "  Methinks  I  feel  new  strength  within  me  rise,  wings 
growing,  and  dominion  given  me  large  'beyond  this  deep ;  what- 
ever draws  me  on,  or  sympathy,  or  some  connatural  force,  power- 
ful at  greatest  distance  to  unite,  with  secret  amity,  things  of  like 
kind,  by  secretest  conveyance.  Thou,  my  Shade  inseparable,  must 
with  me  along.  .  .  .  Nor  can  I  miss  the  way,  so  strongly 
drawn  by  this  new-felt  attraction  and  instinct.  Whom  thus  the 
meagre  Shadow  answered  soon :  Go,  whither  Fate,  and  inclina- 
tion strong,  leads  thee." 

(It  should  be  remarked  here  that  Milton  obeys  the  higher  law 
in  his  grammar,  as  Shakespeare  so  often  does;  "fate"  and  "in- 
clination strong"  not  constituting  a  compound  idea,  inclination 
strong  being  fate,  when  not  controlled,  he  uses  with  these  two  sub- 
jects the  singular  verb  "  leads.") 

"  Go,  whither  Fate,  and  inclination  strong,  leads  thee.  I  shall 
not  lag  behind,  nor  err  the  way,  thou  leading.  ...  So  saying, 
with  delight  he  snuffed  the  smell  of  mortal  change  on  earth  .  .  . 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  22$ 

and  upturned  his  nostrils  wide  into  the  murky  air,*  sagacious  f  of 
his  quarry  from  so  far." 

Strikingly  parallel  with  this  representation  of  Sin  and  Death  (so 
quick  scented,  so  sagacious  of  their  quarry),  is  the  representation 
of  the  weird  sisters.  In  their  first  meeting,  in  the  opening  scene 
of  the  tragedy,  it  is  intimated  that  while  Macbeth  is  serving  his 
king,  in  bravely  fighting  his  country's  foes,  the  promptings  of  a 
regicidal  ambition  had  already  set  in.  The  weird  sisters,  with 
whom  "  fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair,"  scent  from  afar  his  evil  pro- 
pensities. They  are  not  the  first  to  tempt  Macbeth,  but  Mac- 
beth is  the  first  to  tempt  them  to  tempt.  He  tempts  them  to 
stimulate  what  has  originated  within  himself. 

"ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  open  place.     Thunder  and  Lightning. 
Enter  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain? 

2  Witch.  When  the  burly  burly's  done, 
When  the  battle's  lost  and  won. 

3  Witch.  That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

1  Witch.  Where  the  place  ? 

2  Witch.  Upon  the  heath. 

3  Witch.  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth." 

This  last  speech  indicates  that  they  have  already  experienced, 
to  use  the  language  of  Milton's  Sin,  a  "  sympathy  or  some  con- 
natural force,  powerful  at  greatest  distance  to  unite,  with  secret 
amity,  things  of  like  kind,  by  secretest  conveyance." 

"  i  Witch.  I  come,  Graymalkin. 
AH.  Paddock  calls  :  —  Anon.  — 


*  "  Murky  air  "  here  means  what  "  mirksome  air  "  means  in  Spenser,  "  Faerie 
Queene,"  I.  v.  28,  infected  or  tainted.  It  reminds  of  "  the  fog  and  filthy  air" 
through  which  the  weird  sisters  in  Macbeth  hover. 

t  Sagacious,  quick  of  scent. 


226  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair : 

Hover  through  the  fog  «nd  filthy  air." 

[Witches  vanish. 

(The  several  witch  scenes  are  all  accompanied  with  thunder 
and  lightning;  and  it  should  be  noted  here,  that  in  no  other 
Play  has  Shakespeare  so  represented  the  natural  world  as  reflect- 
ing the  moral  world.) 

The  following  passages  are  examples  of  this  : 

Lady  Macbeth,  after  receiving  her  husband's  letter,  says  : 

"  The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements."  — A.  I.  Sc.  v.  39-41. 

When  the  "  gracious  "  Duncan,  who  "  hath  borne  his  faculties  so 
meek,"  and  Banquo,  whose  character  throughout  shows  that  he 
has  kept  his  heart  with  all  diligence,  approach  Macbeth's  castle, 
Duncan  says : 

"  This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses." 

Banquo,  in  his  reply,  shows  that  his  pure  heart  has  made  him  a 
susceptible  observer  of  nature  : 

"  This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here  :  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Buttress,  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle : 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed 
The  air  is  delicate."  —  A.  I.  Sc.  vi.  1-9. 

In  the  early  morning,  after  the  Porter  has  admitted  Macduff 
and  Lenox  to  the  court  of  the  castle,  and  Macbeth  enters,  having 
been  aroused,  as  they  suppose,  by  the  knocking,  Lenox  says,  be- 
fore the  murder  has  been  discovered : 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  22? 

"  The  night  has  been  unruly  :  where  we  lay, 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down,  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air,  strange  screams  of  death, 
And  prophesying  with  accents  terrible 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confused  events 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time :  the  obscure  bird 
Clamour'd  the  livelong  night :  some  say,  the  earth 
Was  feverous  and  did  shake. 

Macb.  'Twas  a  rough  night. 

Len.   My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it."  —  A.  II.  Sc.  iii.  59-67. 

With  reference  to  the  same  night,  is  the  talk  between  Ross  and 
an  old  man,  after  the  murder  is  known  : 

"  Old  M.   Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well  : 
Within  the  volume  of  which  time,  I  have  seen 
Hours  dreadful,  and  things  strange ;  but  this  sore  night 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Rosse.  Ah,  good  father, 

Thou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act, 
Threaten  his  bloody  stage :  by  the  clock,  'tis  day, 
And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  travelling  lamp : 
Is't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  intomb, 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it? 

OldM.  'Tis  unnatural, 

Even  like  the  deed  that's  done.     On  Tuesday  last, 
A  falcon,  tow'ring  in  her  pride  of  place, 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kill'd. 

Rosse.   And  Duncan's  horses,  (a  thing  most  strange  and  certain,) 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung  out, 
Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would 
Make  war  with  mankind. 

Old  M.  'Tis  said,  they  eat  each  other. 

Rosse.   They  did  so,  to  the  amazement  of  mine  eyes 
That  look'd  upon  V  —  A.  II.  Sc.  iv.  1-20. 


228  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

Macbeth  says  to  Lady  Macbeth,  with  reference  to  the  murder 
of  Banquo  and  his  son  Fleance,  for  which  he  has  arranged, 

"  Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 

His  cloister'd  flight,  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
The  shard-borne  beetle,  with  his  drowsy  hums, 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal, 
There  shall  be  done  a  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  M.   What's  to  be  done  ? 

Macb.   Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed.     Come,  seeling  night, 
Skarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 
And,  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand, 
Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale  !  —  Light  thickens ;  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood ; 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse ; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse. 

—  A.  III.  Sc.  ii.  40-53. 

"We  see,"  says  Fanny  Kemble,  "the  violet-coloured  sky,  we 
feel  the  soft  intermitting  wind  of  evening,  we  hear  the  solemn 
lullaby  of  the  dark  fir-forest,  the  homeward  flight  of  the  bird  sug- 
gests the  sweetest  images  of  rest  and  peace ;  and,  coupled  and 
contrasting  with  the  gradual  falling  of  the  dim  veil  of  twilight  over 
the  placid  face  of  nature,  the  remote  horror  of  '  the  deed  of  fear- 
ful note,'  about  to  desecrate  the  solemn  repose  of  the  approaching 
night,  gives  to  these  harmonious  and  lovely  lines  a  wonderful  effect 
of  mingled  beauty  and  terror."  * 

And  just  before  the  murderers  surprise  Banquo,  the  first  mur- 
derer says  : 

' '  The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day : 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace 
To  gain  the  timely  inn,  and  near  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch."  — A.  III.  Sc.  iii.  5-8. 


Macmillan 's  Magazine,  May,  1867. 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

The  poet  appears  to  have  been  so  filled  with  the  spirit  of  his 
theme,  that  that  spirit  radiated  upon  all  the  aspects  of  the  natural 
world,  and  was  reflected  therefrom.  "  The  west  yet  glimmers  with 
some  streaks  of  day"  In  the  moral  world  which  he  is  represent- 
ing, there  are  yet  some  glimmerings  of  moral  light :  but  these 
glimmerings  are  soon  to  be  wholly  swallowed  up  in  moral  dark- 
ness. And  it  is  to  be  remarked,  too,  that  the  murder  of  Banquo 
and  the  appearance  of  his  ghost  at  the  banquet,  marks  the  point 
where  all  light  goes  out  for  both  Macbeth  and  his  queen. 

To  return  from  this  digression :  Shakespeare  has  taken  pains 
to  make  clear  what  he  meant  by  the  weird  sisters.  In  the  solil- 
oquy which  Lady  Macbeth  utters,  after  receiving  her  husband's 
letter,  she  says  (A.  I.  Sc.  v.  41-51)  :  "Come, you  spirits  that  tend 
on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here,  and  fill  me  from  the  crown  to 
the  toe,  top-full  of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood ;  stop  up 
the  access  and  passage  to  remorse,  that  no  compunctious  visitings 
of  nature  shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between  the  effect 
and  it !  Come  to  my  woman's  breasts,  and  take  my  milk  for  gall, 
you  murthring  ministers,  wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
you  wait  on  nature's  mischief !  " 

("  Sightless  substances  "  :  "  sightless  "  is  used  objectively,  in  the 
sense  of  "  invisible  "  ;  "  substances  "  means  "  essences  "  ;  sightless 
substances,  invisible  essences.  "  Sightless  "  is  again  used  in  an 
objective  sense,  in  A.  I.  Sc.  vii.  23  :  "  Sightless  couriers  of  the 
air.") 

Here,  in  fact,  is  brought  out  what  we  must  understand  by  the 
weird  sisters.  They  are  the  impersonations  of  the  "spirits  that 
tend  on  mortal  thoughts,"  of  the  "  sightless  substances  that  wait 
on  nature's  mischief,"  that  respond  to  the  elective  affinities  of 
man's  soul.  They  are  objective  entities,  to  stand  against  which, 
St.  Paul  tells  us,  we  must  "  put  on  the  whole  armor  of  God." 
"For,"  he  says,  "we  wrestle  not  against  flesh  and  blood,  but 
against  principalities,  against  powers,  against  the  rulers  of  the 
darkness  of  this  world."  —  Eph.  vi.  n,  12. 

As  an  exposition  of  the  spiritual  constitution  of  things,  what  a 


230  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

reality  Christianity  must  have  been  to  such  a  soul  as  Shakespeare's  ! 
A  reality  to  be  confirmed  by  spiritual  experience,  not  a  creed  to 
be  intellectually  believed.  And  it  is  quite  evident  to  one  who 
reads  Shakespeare  aright,  that  the  Christian  miracles  did  not 
trouble  him  very  much,  and  that  he  had  not  to  resort  to  the  theory 
of  a  suspension  of  the  laws  of  nature,  nor  make  them  acceptable 
to  the  intellect,  as  some  theologians  of  the  present  day  are  trying 
to  do,  even  Canon  Farrar,  in  his  "  Life  of  Christ "  (Vol.  I.  pp. 
337  et  seq.,  of  Amer.  ed.). 

In  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Lafeu  says  (A.  I.  Sc.  iii.)  :  "  They 
say  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have  our  philosophical  persons,  to 
make  modern  [/>.,  common,  ordinary]  and  familiar,  things  su- 
pernatural and  causeless.*  Hence  is  it  that  we  make  trifles  of 
terrors,  ensconcing  ourselves  into  seeming  knowledge,  when  we 
should  submit  ourselves  to  an  unknown  fear.  Why,  'tis  the  rarest 
argument  of  wonder  that  hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times." 

Gervinus  remarks  (Vol.  II.  p.  167  of  his  "Shakespeare  Com- 
mentaries ")  :  "  We  need  hardly  tell  our  readers  whom  we  imagine 
to  be  more  and  more  initiated  into  the  mind  of  our  poet,  that  his 
spirit-world  signifies  nothing  but  the  visible  embodiment  of  the 
images  conjured  up  by  a  lively  fancy,  and  that  their  apparition 
only  takes  place  with  such  as  have  this  excitable  imagination"  [!]. 

The  greatest  poet  of  the  race  was  the  greatest  by  reason  of  his 
exceptional  nearness  to  the  essential  world  —  his  abnormal  spiritual 
sensitiveness  brought  him  into  a  more  intimate  relationship  with 
invisible  potencies.  His  soul  was  more  closely  linked  with  the 
great  vital  and  spiritual  forces  of  the  world,  and  was,  through  this 
means,  admitted  further  into  Nature's  penetralia  than  is  permitted 
to  the  mere  discursive  understanding,  however  great  the  orbit  in 
which  it  may  move.  The  discursive  understanding  may  even 
tend  to  divorce  the  soul  from  those  great  vital  and  spiritual  forces, 

*  Coleridge  remarks:  "Shakespeare,  inspired,  as  it  might  seem,  with  all 
knowledge,  here  uses  the  word  'causeless'  in  its  strict  philosophical  sense;  — 
cause  being  truly  predicable  only  of  phenomena,  that  is,  things  natural,  and 
not  of  nouwena,  or  things  supernatural." 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  2$l 

in  whose  current  alone  it  can  be  conducted  to  the  kingdom  of 
essential  truth. 

In  the  next  scene  in  which  the  weird  sisters  appear,  the  3d  of 
the  ist  Act,  as  Macbeth  enters  with  Banquo,  he  says:  "So  foul 
and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen."  The  literal  significance  of  this 
speech  is  evident  enough :  namely,  that  the  day  has  been  foul  in 
respect  to  the  weather,  and  fair  in  respect  to  the  battle  in  which 
they  have  engaged.  It  has  been  understood,  too,  as  referring  to 
the  varying  fortune  of  the  day  of  battle,  before  victory  was  finally 
achieved  by  the  king's  forces  under  Macbeth  and  Banquo.  But 
which  is  the  true  literal  meaning  is  unimportant.  The  important 
thing  to  be  considered  is,  what  was,  no  doubt,  intended  to  be  inti- 
mated by  the  speech.  The  same  epithets  are  used  as  are  used  in 
the  last  speech  of  the  witches,  in  the  first  scene  :  "  Fair  is  foul,  and 
foul  is  fair,"  and  the  intimation  evidently  intended  is,  that  a  rela- 
tionship has  been  established,  as  Coleridge  has  noted,  between  the 
powers  of  evil  and  Macbeth's  soul  —  a  relationship,  however,  which 
it  is  yet  in  Macbeth's  power  to  sever.  It  is  important  to  consider 
this  :  his  free  agency  is  not  yet  surrendered ;  and  it  rests  with  him 
whether  he  will  assert  it,  or  resign  himself  to  their  destructive  in- 
fluence. It  is  also  important  to  consider  that  the  establishment  of 
the  relationship  has  been  primarily  due  to  Macbeth  himself,  and  not 
to  outside  influence.  It  has  originated  in  his  own  heart.  ("  Keep 
thy  heart  with  all  diligence,  for  out  of  it  are  the  issues  of  life.") 
Banquo  is  the  first  to  notice  the  witches,  and  in  his  first  speech  to 
them,  and  in  his  subsequent  speeches,  he  shows  that  no  magnetic 
current  has  been  established  between  them  and  himself.  In  Mac- 
beth's speech,  only  his  imperious  nature  is  manifested,  as  he  yet 
knows  not  the  relations  to  himself  of  the  strange  beings  he  is  ad- 
dressing :  "  Speak,  if  you  can,  what  you  are? "  The  "all  hail"  of 
the  3d  witch,  "  All  hail,  Macbeth,  that  shalt  be  King  hereafter  !  " 
shows  that  they  have  had  a  look  into  his  mind's  construction,  and 
have  discovered  there  what  they  can  stimulate  into  regicide  and 
moral  destruction.  The  speech  of  Banquo  indicates  the  effect  of 
this  "  all  hail  "  upon  Macbeth's  mind,  and  the  no  effect  upon  his 


232  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

own :  "  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start,  and  seem  to  fear  things  that 
do  sound  so  fair?  "  He  starts  because  the  future  fulfilment  of  the 
secret  and  wicked  desire  of  his  heart  has  been  so  mysteriously 
proclaimed.  But  there's  nothing  within  the  heart  of  Banquo  to 
cause  him  to  start ;  and  he  continues  in  words  which  indicate  that 
he  has  kept  his  heart  with  all  diligence.  One  character  serves 
admirably  as  a  foil  to  the  other.  "  In  the  name  of  truth,"  Banquo 
continues,  "  are  ye  fantastical  [i.e.,  creatures  of  fantasy  or  imagi- 
nation], or  that  indeed  which  outwardly  ye  show?  My  noble 
partner  you  greet  with  present  grace  and  great  prediction  of  noble 
having  and  of  royal  hope,  that  he  seems  wrapt  withal."  ("  Present 
grace,"  "great  prediction  of  noble  having,"  and  "royal  hope" 
refer  respectively  to  the  ist,  2d,  and  3d  "all  hail"  of  the  witches.) 
Banquo  continues  :  "  to  me  you  speak  not.  If  you  can  look  into 
the  seeds  of  time,  and  say  which  grain  will  grow  and  which  will 
not,  speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear  your  favours  nor 
your  hate."  * 

(There's  certainly  nothing  in  this  demand  of  Banquo,  in  regard 
to  himself,  which  supports  what  Schlegel  calls  "the  ambitious 
curiosity  which  prompted  him  to  wish  to  know  his  glorious  descen- 
dants." The  poet  evidently  meant  the  demand  to  indicate  the 
unpossessedness  (to  use  Coleridge's  word)  of  Banquo's  mind,  which 
is  contrasted  with  \hepossessedness  of  Macbeth's  mind.  He  neither 
begs  nor  fears  the  witches'  favors  nor  their  hate.) 

In  reply  to  Banquo's  command  to  speak  to  him,  the  witches 
answer  :  "  ist  Witch.  Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater.  2d  Witch. 
Not  so  happy  [i.e.,  fortunate,  Latin  felix\,  yet  much  happier. 
3d  Witch.  Thou  shalt  get  kings,  tho'  thou  be  nojie  :  so  all  hail, 
Macbeth  and  Banquo  !  ist  Witch.  Banquo  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 
Macbeth.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more,"  etc.  It  is 
plainly  indicated  what  is  back  of  this  eager  insistence  on  the  part 
of  Macbeth,  that  these  imperfect  speakers  "  stay."  Without  know- 


*  Note  the  respective  construction  :  "  favours  "  is  respective  to  "  beg,"  and 
hate  "  to  "  fear."     He  neither  begs  their  favors  nor  fears  their  hate. 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  233 

ing  anything  of  the  nature  or  trustworthiness  of  the  strange  beings 
before  him,  he  is  ready  to  gulp  all  he  can  draw  from  them.  "  Fere 
libenter  homines  id  quod  volunt,  credunt,"  says  Julius  Caesar 
(B.  G.  III.  1 8),  who  rarely  turns  aside  to  express  an  abstract 
truth.  "  Men  very  readily  believe  what  they  desire  to  be  true." 
But  Macbeth's  eager  insistence  is  not  at  all  caught  by  Banquo. 
He  quietly  remarks,  when  the  witches  vanish :  "  The  earth  hath 
bubbles,  as  the  water  has,  and  these  are  of  them.  Whither  are 
they  vanished  ?  Macbeth.  Into  the  air :  and  what  seemed  cor- 
poral, melted  as  breath  into  the  wind.  Would  they  had  stayed  > " 
Note  this  last  speech,  "Would  they  had  stayed!"  He  is  disap- 
pointed that  he  has  not  heard  more  of  what  so  deeply  concerns 
him.  But  Banquo  simply  says,  indicating  that  there  is  nothing  in 
his  own  breast  to  be  aroused  by  what  he  has  heard,  "  Were  such 
things  here  as  we  do  speak  about?  Or  have  we  eaten  on  the 
insane  root  that  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? "  But  Macbeth, 
wholly  absorbed  and  inflamed  by  what  he  has  heard,  continues, 
without  replying  to  what  Banquo  has  just  asked,  "  Your  children 
shall  be  kings."  Note,  too,  that  Banquo  makes  nothing  of  Mac- 
beth's saying,  "your  children  shall  be  kings."  But  Macbeth  adds, 
with  great  satisfaction,  to  Banquo's  remark  ("you  shall  be  king,")  : 
"  And  thane  of  Cawdor,  too  ;  went  it  not  so  ?  "  Banquo  replies 
most  indifferently,  and  in  an  off-hand  way,  "  To  the  selfsame  tune 
and  words.  Who's  here?  " 

That  Macbeth  has  tempted  the  witches  to  tempt  him,  that  they, 
in  return,  have  set  about  stimulating  and  inflaming  what  has  origi- 
nated within  his  own  breast,  is  evident  enough  from  the  scene  up 
to  this  point.  But  the  evidence  is  enforced  by  what  follows. 
Upon  Banquo's  question,  "Who's  here,"  Rosse  and  Angus  enter; 
and  after  they  inform  Macbeth  of  the  joy  with  which  the  King  has 
received  the  news  of  his  victory,  and  of  the  praises  which  have 
been  showered  upon  his  valor,  and  present  their  royal  master's 
thanks,  Rosse  adds :  "  And  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honor,  he 
bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor  ;  in  which  addition, 
hail,  most  worthy  thane  !  For  it  is  thine."  This  almost  immedi- 


234  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

ate  fulfilment  of  one  of  the  salutations  of  the  witches,  "  Hail  to 
thee,  thane  of  Cawdor "  (and  it  must  be  inferred  that  they  got 
their  knowledge  by  being  invisibly  present  at  the  time  when  the 
King  commanded  his  ministers  to  pronounce  the  traitorous  thane 
of  Cawdor's  immediate  death,  and  with  his  former  title  to  greet 
Macbeth,  and  thus  were  able  to  convey  to  Macbeth  the  informa- 
tion ahead  of  Rosse  and  Angus),  is  to  Macbeth  an  assurance  that 
the  prophetic  salutation,  "  All  hail,  Macbeth,  that  shalt  be  King 
hereafter,"  will  also  be  fulfilled ;  what  Coleridge  called  the  con- 
catenating tendency  of  the  imagination  is  fostered  by  the  sudden 
coincidence ;  and  he  soliloquizes :  "  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Caw- 
dor  !  the  greatest  is  behind."  And  then  thanking  Rosse  and 
Angus  for  their  pains,  he  says,  excitedly,  to  Banquo,  "  Do  you  not 
hope  your  children  shall  be  kings,  when  those  that  gave  the  thane 
of  Cawdor  to  me,  promised  no  less  to  them?" 

The  reply  of  Banquo,  under  the  circumstances,  makes  him 
appear,  as  do,  indeed,  his  speeches  on  all  occasions,  as  the  very 
spokesman  of  Macbeth's  good  angels,  as  the  intermediate  agency 
between  them  and  Macbeth's  soul,  whose  evil  suggestions  the 
powers  of  darkness  are  inciting.  To  Macbeth's  question,  "  Do 
you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings,  when  those  that  gave 
the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me,  promised  no  less  to  them,"  he  replies, 
as  one  who  is  proof  against  the  wiles  of  evil,  "  That  trusted  home 
[*>.,  fully,  unreservedly  trusted]  might  yet  enkindle  you  unto 
the  crown,  besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.  But  'tis  strange:  and 
oftentimes  to  win  us  to  our  harm,  the  instruments  of  darkness 
tell  us  truths,  win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us  in  deepest 
consequence." 

The  entire  moral  of  the  tragedy  is  expressed  in  this  speech.* 
Banquo  appears  to  have  been  specially  designed  by  the  poet,  as 
a  counter-agency  to  the  agency  of  the  weird  sisters  (if  that  can  be 


*  Of  like  import  is  the  following  stanza  from  Wordsworth's  "  Peter  Bell " : 

"  I  know  you,  potent  Spirits,  well, 
How,  with  the  feeling  and  the  sense 
Playing,  ye  govern  foes  or  friends, 
Yoked  to  your  will,  for  fearful  ends." 


If  EBSITTt  }) 
WITCH  AGENCY  I^W^BETH^.          235 

called  a  counter- agency  which  proves  entirely  ineffective)  ;  or,  as 
a  support  or  encouragement  to  Macbeth's  free  agency,  if  he  choose 
to  assert  it. 

But  the  aside  speech  of  Macbeth  which  follows,  shows  how 
impervious  he  is  to  any  saving  influence,  by  reason  of  his  all- 
absorbing  desire  of  sovereignty.  He  disregards  what  Banquo 
says,  and  soliloquizes  :  "  Two  truths  are  told,  as  happy  prologues  to 
the  swelling  act  of  the  imperial  theme."  And  then  he  interposes, 
"  I  thank  you,  gentlemen,"  as  a  bit  of  merely  politic  courtesy,  and 
continues:  "This  supernatural  soliciting  [i.e.,  incitement]  can- 
not be  ill,  cannot  be  good  :  if  ill,  why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of 
success  commencing  in  a  truth  ?"  To  this  question  Banquo  has 
already  given  a  wholesome  answer,  which  he  disregarded.  He  con- 
tinues :  "  I  am  thane  of  Cawdor :  if  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that 
suggestion  whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair,  and  make  my 
seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs,  against  the  use  of  nature  ?  Present 
fears  are  less  than  horrible  imaginings  :  my  thought,  v/hose  murder 
yet  is  but  fantastical,  shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  function 
is  smothered  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is  but  what  is  not "  (A.  I. 
Sc.  iii.  137-142). 

Here  we  have  the  first  indication  of  that  keenly  imaginative 
temperament  of  Macbeth  which  will  play  so  important  a  part  in 
his  murderous  career,  which  will  deceive  his  wife  as  to  its  true 
character,  and  which  has  misled  many  commentators.  It  is  what 
will,  at  first,  in  his  murderous  career,  shake  his  fell  purpose,  and 
may  be  easily  mistaken  for  what  Lady  Macbeth  calls  "  compunc- 
tious visitings  of  nature  "  ;  but  a  genuine  compunction  there  is  no 
evidence  that  he  experiences  :  and  his  "  horrible  imaginings  "  are, 
in  fact,  only  one  mode  in  which  his  selfishness  manifests  itself. 
He  has  selfish  fears  from  external  dangers,  intensified  by  a  mor- 
bidly active  imagination. 

This  is  shown  in  his  soliloquy  (A.  I.  Sc.  vii.)  :  "  If  it  were  done 
when  'tis  done,"  that  is  (the  word  "  done  "  having  a  double  appli- 
cation), if  the  deed  I  am  contemplating  were  done  with,  and 
there  would  be  nothing  more  of  it,  after  it  is  committed,  "  then 


236  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

'twere  well."  "  It  were  done  quickly,"  without  any  hesitation  and 
without  any  misgivings,  "  if  the  assassination  could  trammel  up 
the  consequence,"  i.e.,  could  catch  up,  as  in  a  net,  could  shut  out 
all  bad  results  to  myself  (in  this  world,  as  the  following  lines 
show),  "we'ld  jump  [risk]  the  life  to  come."  This  is  explicit 
enough.  The  consequences  of  the  act  to  his  soul  are  nothing  to 
him.  The  outside  consequences  of  the  act  alone  cause  him  to 
hesitate.  Surely  there  are  no  moral  scruples  whatever  exhibited 
in  this  soliloquy,  but  only  selfish  "  imaginings." 

To  return  from  this  digression  to  the  scene  before  us,  the  3d 
of  the  ist  Act.  Banquo  remarks,  as  Macbeth  soliloquizes,  "  Look 
how  our  partner's  rapt."  Macbeth  continues  his  soliloquy :  "  If 
chance  will  have  me  king,  why  chance  may  crown  me,  without 
my  stir."  Here's  an  implied  admission  (even  supposing  the  weird 
sisters  to  be  the  original  instigators)  that  he  has  received  no  war- 
rant, no  suggestion,  of  any  kind,  from  without,  to  murder  his  King, 
in  order  that  the  "All  hail,  Macbeth,  that  shalt  be  King  hereafter," 
be  realized.  Banquo  remarks  upon  his  rapt  condition  :  "  New 
honours  come  upon  him,  like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to 
their  mould  but  with  the  aid  of  use."  But  Macbeth  still  continues 
in  soliloquy :  "  Come  what  come  may,  time  and  the  hour  runs 
thro'  the  roughest  day."  And  then  Banquo  breaks  in  upon  his 
musing :  "  Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  [await]  your  leisure. 
Macb.  Give  me  your  favour  [that  is,  indulgence]  :  my  dull 
brain  was  wrought  with  things  forgotten."  On  this  speech  Cole- 
ridge well  remarks  :  "  Lost  in  the  prospective  of  his  guilt,  he  turns 
round  alarmed  lest  others  may  suspect  what  is  passing  in  his  own 
mind,  and  instantly  vents  the  lie  of  ambition  :  '  My  dull  brain  was 
wrought  with  things  forgotten ; '  and  immediately  after  pours  forth 
the  promising  courtesies  of  a  usurper  in  intention  :  '  Kind  gentle- 
men, your  pains  are  registered  where  every  day  I  turn  the  leaf  to 
read  them.'  "  Then,  addressing  Banquo,  "  Let  us  toward  the 
King.  Think  upon  what  hath  chanced,  and,  at  more  time,  the 
interim  having  weighed  it,  let  us  speak  our  free  hearts  each  to 
other." 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

The  next  scene  wherein  the  witches  appear,  is  the  5th  of  the 
3d  Act.  "  A  Heath.  Thunder.  Enter  the  three  Witches,  meeting 
Hecate"  Hecate,  in  her  reproof  of  the  witches,  represents  herself 
as  the  mistress  of  their  charms,  and  the  secret  contriver  of  all 
harms.  She  commands  them  to  meet  her  in  the  morning  at  the 
pit  of  Acheron,  where  Macbeth  will  come  to  know  his  destiny. 
(By  "  the  pit  of  Acheron  "  must  be  meant  some  secret  and  gloomy 
cavern  near  Macbeth's  castle.)  Hecate  continues  :  "  I  am  for  the 
air ;  this  night  I'll  spend  unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end :  great 
business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon  :  upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 
there  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound  :  I'll  catch  it  ere  it  come 
to  ground :  and  that,  distilled  by  magic  sleights,  shall  raise  such 
artificial  sprites  as  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion  shall  draw  him 
on  to  his  confusion  [destruction]  :  he  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death, 
and  bear  his  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear :  and  you  all 
know  security  is  mortals'  chiefest  enemy."  ("Security"  is  here 
used  in  a  subjective  sense,  and  means  as  much  as  "  recklessness," 
such  recklessness  as  is  expressed  in  the  preceding  lines,  spurning 
fate,  scorning  death,  and  bearing  hopes  above  wisdom,  grace,  and 
fear.  When  Macbeth  is  fairly  started  upon  his  murderous  career, 
the  "horrible  imaginings"  which  deterred  him  at  the  outset,  give 
place  to  the  recklessness  characterized  in  the  speech  of  Hecate.) 

In  the  banquet  scene,  the  4th  of  the  3d  Act,  after  the  guests 
have  been  unceremoniously  dismissed  by  Lady  Macbeth,  by  reason 
of  her  husband's  overwrought  condition,  consequent  upon  the 
appearance  of  the  ghost  of  the  murdered  Banquo,  he  says  to  her : 
"  I  will  to-morrow,  and  betimes  I  will,  to  the  weird  sisters  :  more 
shall  they  speak,  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know,  by  the  worst  means, 
the  worst.  For  mine  own  good  all  causes  shall  give  way  :  I  am  in 
blood  stepp'd  in  so  far  that,  should  I  wade  no  more,  returning  were 
as  tedious  as  go  o'er :  strange  things  I  have  in  head  that  will  to 
hand,  which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scanned" 

(The  last  sentence  indicates  the  stage  he  has  reached  since  he 
first  started  upon  his  career.  There's  to  be  no  more  scanning  of 
consequences.  He  is  now  in  the  firm  grip  of  Fate.  The  free 


238  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

agency  which  he  might  have  exercised  at  the  outset,  when  he 
received  the  wise  caution  of  Banquo,  he  has  forfeited ;  his  self- 
determination  is  lost ;  and  he  is  now  given  over  to  the  powers  of 
evil.  And  it  should  be  noted  that  this  speech  is  in  the  scene  be- 
fore that  in  which  Hecate  appears,  and  says  "  he  shall  spurn  fate, 
scorn  death,  and  bear  his  hope  'bove  wisdom,  grace  and  fear." 
She  only  harps  what  is  already  in  his  mind  and  purpose.  And  this 
is  true  throughout  the  relations  of  the  weird  sisters  to  Macbeth. 
They  originate  nothing.  This  is  the  great  fact  to  be  noted  in  the 
Play ;  but  it  has  not  been  noted  by  many  of  the  commentators.) 

Lady  Macbeth  makes  no  other  reply  to  the  speech  of  her  hus- 
band, last  quoted,  "  I  am  in  blood  stepp'd  in  so  far,"  etc.,  than 
"  you  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep."  She  is  broken.  The 
Lady  Macbeth  of  the  early  part  of  the  play  is  no  more.  The 
strong  will,  at  first  untrammelled  by  any  considerations  of  conse- 
quences, by  any  of  her  husband's  "horrible  imaginings,"  gives 
place  to  remorse  (capabilities  of  which,  it  becomes  evident,  she 
possessed  in  a  high  degree  j  but  they  were  kept  down  by  the  terrific 
will  which  swept  everything  before  it  —  a  will  in  the  service  of  a 
wifely  sympathy  with  her  husband 's  overmastering  desire  for  sove- 
reignty, and  not  of  an  independent  ambition  ;  and  when  that  de- 
sire of  her  husband  is  realized,  and  she  sees  what  its  realization 
has  brought  with  it,  and  also  discovers  that  he  is  of  a  different 
nature  from  what  she  represents  him  to  be,  in  the  speech  she  utters 
after  receiving  his  letter,  her  womanly  nature  (and  her  nature  is 
most  womanly)  succumbs  to  the  violation  to  which  it  is  subjected. 

The  next  witch  scene  is  the  ist  of  the  4th  Act:  "A  cavern. 
In  the  middle,  a  boiling  cauldron.  Thunder.  Enter  the  three 

witches. 

"  i  Witch.  Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd. 

2  Witch.  Thrice,  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whin'd. 

3  Witch.  Harpier  cries.  — 'Tis  time,  'tis  time. 
i  Witch.  Round  about  the  cauldron  go ; 

In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 
Toad,  that  under  cold  stone, 
Days  and  nights  has  thirty-one 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  239 

Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot. 

All.  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

2  Witch.    Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake : 
Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, 

For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble ; 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.   Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

3  Witch.    Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf; 
Witches1  mummy,  maw  and  gulf 

Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark  ; 
Root  of  hemlock  digg'd  i'  the  dark; 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew ; 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 
Silver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse  ; 
Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips ; 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe 
Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab, 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab ; 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron. 

All.    Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 

2  Witch.    Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good." 

The  loathsome  ingredients  of  the  hell-broth  they  are  brewing  to 
work  the  charm  which  will  add  fresh  fuel  to  the  sin-inflamed  soul 
of  Macbeth,  and  draw  him  on  to  his  destruction,  symbolize  the 
relationship  of  these  demons  with  the  night  side  of  nature  —  with 
the  powers  of  darkness :  poisoned  entrails,  the  toad's  sweltered 
venom,  fillet  of  a  fenny  snake,  maw  and  gulf  of  the  ravined  salt-sea 


240  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

shark,  liver  of  blaspheming  Jew,  gall  of  goat,  slips  of  yew  slivered 
in  the  moon's  eclipse,  finger  of  birth -strangled  babe  ditch- 
delivered  by  a  drab,  and  other  revolting  things. 

Just  before  Macbeth  enters,  the  2d  witch  scents  the  approach- 
ing prey,  and,  as  may  be  imagined,  upturns  her  nostril  wide  into 
the  murky  air,  sagacious  of  her  quarry,  and  exclaims  :  "  By  the 
pricking  of  my  thumbs,  something  wicked  this  way  comes.  Open 
locks,  whoever  knocks."  A  speech  of  deep  significance,  revealing, 
as  it  does,  the  nature  of  these  horrible  hags  —  their  magnetic  sen- 
sitiveness to  whatever  is  akin  to  their  own  evil  nature  —  their 
readiness  to  open  to  every  one  who  knocks.  "Knock,  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you,"  is  even  more  true  where  the  determin- 
ation of  any  one's  nature  is  toward  evil  than  where  it  is  toward 
good. 

What  follows,  in  this  scene,  prefigures,  in  an  equivocal  way, 
what  has  become  the  fated  career  which  Macbeth  has  to  run,  to 
its  bitter  end  —  fated,  because  he  has  not  held  on  to  himself. 
He  has  lost  his  free  will  and  has  drifted  into  the  irresistible  cur- 
rent of  evil  forces. 

The  several  apparitions  which  are  summoned  to  address  him, 
are  the  "artificial  sprites  "  which  Hecate,  in  the  5th  Scene  of  the 
3d  Act,  says  shall,  "  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion,  draw  him  on 
to  his  confusion." 

The  first  apparition,  "  an  armed  head,"  is  generally  understood 
as  prefiguring  Macbeth's  head,  cut  off  and  brought  to  Malcolm  by 
Macduff.  Macbeth  begins  to  address  it  with  the  words,  "Tell 
me,  thou  unknown  power,  —  "  but  is  interrupted  by  the  ist  witch  : 
"He  knows  thy  thought :  hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  nought." 
Here  it  is  again  indicated  that  everything  originates  in  Macbeth's 
own  mind.  "  ist  App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  beware 
Macduff;  beware  the  thane  of  Fife.  Dismiss  me  :  enough.  [De- 
scends.] Macb.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution  thanks ; 
thou  hast  harped  my  fear  aright :  but  one  word  more,  —  ist  Witch. 
He  will  not  be  commanded  :  here's  another,  more  potent  than  the 
first.  Thunder.  2d  Apparition :  a  bloody  child"  The  bloody 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  241 

child  represents  Macduff  untimely  ripped  from  his  mother's  womb, 
and  is,  in  the  words  of  the  ist  witch,  "  more  potent  than  the  first," 
that  is,  Macbeth.  "  2d  App.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute ;  "  just 
what  Macbeth  has  already  determined  to  be  :  "  laugh  to  scorn  the 
powers  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born  shall  harm  Macbeth. 
Macb.  Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fear  of  thee?  But  yet 
I'll  make  assurance  double  sure,  and  take  a  bond  of  fate  :  thou 
shalt  not  live ;  that  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies,  and  sleep 
in  spite  of  thunder." 

It  should  be  especially  noted  that  after  the  witches  vanish,  Mac- 
beth learns  from  Lenox  that  Macduff  has  fled  to  England.  This 
fact  the  witches  must  be  supposed  to  know,  and  they  give  Mac- 
beth a  gratuitous  warning  against  Macduff,  and  thus  secure  for 
themselves  his  faith  in  their  guardianship  of  him ;  a  gratuitous 
warning,  because,  Macduff  being  out  of  Macbeth's  reach,  the  latter 
cannot  make  assurance  double  sure,  by  putting  his  dreaded  enemy 
out  of  the  way.  This  is  a  very  shrewd  dodge  of  the  witches. 
Their  warning  is  not  for  his  safety,  but  for  his  destruction. 

"  Thunder.  Third  Apparition :  a  child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in 
his  hand"  This  child  prefigures  the  King's  son,  Malcolm,  who,  as 
he  advances  against  Macbeth,  will  order  every  soldier  hew  him 
down  a  bough  and  bear  it  before  him  to  Dunsinane,  thereby  to 
shadow  the  number  of  his  forces,  and  make  Macbeth's  spies  err 
in  report  of  them. 

"3d  App.  Be  lion-mettled,  proud,  and  take  no  care  who  chafes, 
who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are :  Macbeth  shall  never  van- 
quished be  until  great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill  shall 
come  against  him." 

Macbeth's  confidence  in  the  witches'  protecting  power  has  been 
strengthened  by  the  predictions  of  the  ist  and  2d  Apparitions, 
who  have  warned  him  against  the  man  whom  he  already  knew  was 
to  be  especially  feared,  and  assured  him  that  no  one  of  woman 
born  could  harm  him.  The  prediction  of  the  3d  Apparition,  that 
he  never  shall  be  vanquished  until  great  Birnam  wood  to  high 
Dunsinane  hill  shall  come  against  him,  clinches  his  confidence,  as 


242  THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH. 

his  speech  in  reply  shows  :  "  That  will  never  be  :  who  can  impress 
the  forest,  [that  is,  press  the  forest  into  military  service],  bid 
the  tree  unfix  his  earth-bound  root?  "  But  now  that  he  is  assured 
that  he  "  shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath  to  time  and 
mortal  custom,"  he  is  eager  to  know  whether  their  predictions  in 
regard  to  Banquo  will  be  fulfilled  :  "  Yet  my  heart  throbs  to  know 
one  thing :  tell  me,  —  if  your  art  can  tell  so  much,  —  shall  Ban- 
quo's  issue  ever -reign  in  this  kingdom?"  When  he  is  told  to 
"  seek  to  know  no  more,"  his  haughty  and  arbitrary  imperiousness 
denounces  them  roundly,  which  they  repay  with  "  a  show  of  eight 
Kings,  the  last  with  a  glass  in  his  hand :  Banquo's  Ghost  follow- 
ing ;  "  —  not  the  Banquo  as  he  knew  him  in  life,  but  the  Banquo, 
blood-boltered,  as  he  appeared  to  him  in  the  banquet  scene  : 
"  the  blood-boltered  Banquo  smiles  upon  me,  and  points  at  them 
[the  Kings]  for  his." 

The  witches  are  gleeful  over  their  victim,  whose  eyeballs  have 
been  seared  by  what  has  been  shown  him.  The  first  witch  says  : 
"  Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprights,  and  show  the  best  of  our 
delights  :  I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound,  while  you  perform 
your  antic  round,  that  this  great  king  may  kindly  say  our  duties 
did  his  welcome  pay." 

There's  a  hellish  sarcasm  intended  in  the  word  "  kindly."  And 
note  especially  the  last  sentence  uttered  by  the  witches,  in  the 
tragedy :  "  OUR  DUTIES  DID  HIS  WELCOME  PAY." 

It  expresses  implicitly  all  that  has  been  set  forth,  in  regard  to  the 
relation  of  the  witches  to  Macbeth.  He  was  the  first  to  welcome 
them  as  guests  to  his  bosom,  and  they  have  done  their  duty  by 
him,  as  agents  of  the  devil.  They  have  originated  nothing  within 
him.  They  have  but  harped  what  he  has  previously  desired  and 
premeditated,  and  have  thus  stimulated  his  evil  propensities  into 
acts.  In  this  last  scene  in  which  they  appear,  they  urge  him  on  in 
his  career  by  flattering  equivocations,  and  to  these  he  will  cling  to 
the  bitter  end.  Each  in  turn  proves  a  false  reliance  ;  and,  finally, 
he  drops  into  the  abyss  which  is  yawning  to  receive  him. 

Verily  the  tragedy  affords  no  support  to  the  interpretation  that 


THE    WITCH  AGENCY  IN  MACBETH.  243 

the  witches  are  the  original  instigators.  If  this  interpretation  were 
the  true  one,  if  Macbeth  were  a  man  "whose  natural  temper," 
according  to  one  of  his  interpreters,  "  would  have  deterred  him  " 
from  the  murder  of  his  King,  and  if  he  were  subjected  at  the  out- 
set, to  an  irresistible  objective  instigation  (his  free  agency  being 
destroyed  by  that  instigation),  to  do  such  violence  to  his  better 
nature,  the  tragedy  would  have  no  true  dramatic  merit,  and  should 
be  consigned  to  the  limbo  of  the  so-called  Heroic  Plays  of  the 
Restoration  Drama. 


244        LADY  MACBETWS  RELATIONS   TO  MACBETH. 


LADY  MACBETH'S  RELATIONS  TO 
MACBETH. 


IN  the  foregoing  chapter,  it  is  shown  that  Macbeth  welcomed 
the  Witches  as  guests  to  his  bosom,  and  that  they  did  their  duty 
by  him  as  agents  of  evil.  They  originated  nothing  within  him, 
they  but  harped  what  he  had  previously  desired  and  meditated, 
and  thus  stimulated  his  evil  propensities  into  acts.  In  the  last 
scene  in  which  they  appear,  the  ist  of  the  4th  Act,  they  urge  him 
on  in  his  career  by  flattering  equivocations,  each  of  which  proves 
a  false  reliance ;  but  he  clings  to  them,  to  the  bitter  end,  and 
finally  drops  into  the  abyss  which  is  yawning  to  receive  him. 

It  can  be  as  plainly  read  that  the  part  played  by  Lady  Macbeth 
was  in  the  service  of  a  wifely  sympathy  with  her  husband1  s  e'er- 
mastering  desire  for  sovereignty  and  not  of  an  independent  ambi- 
tion ;  a  desire  with  which,  so  far  as  the  evidence  goes,  in  the  play, 
she  had  nothing  originally  to  do. 

Macbeth  first  reveals  himself,  after  his  victory  over  his  country's 
foes,  before  he  returns  to  his  own  castle,  there  to  be  sustained  and 
urged  on  to  the  killing  of  his  King,  by  his  devoted  wife,  whose 
powerful  and  untrammelled  will  is  set  against  his  trammelled  will 
—  trammelled,  not  by  compunctious  visitings,  as  is  supposed  by 
many  commentators  and  readers,  but  by  considerations  of  conse- 
quences ;  not  of  consequences  to  his  own  soul  (for  he  goes  so  far 
as  to  say  that  he'd  risk  the  life  to  come,  if  his  ambition  could  be 
realized  with  outward  safety  to  himself) . 

After  his  victory,  when  he  and  Banquo  return  to  the  palace,  the 
amiable  King  expresses,  in  the  strongest  terms,  his  gratitude  for 
the  great  services  which  his  two  generals,  Macbeth  and  Banquo, 


LADY  MACBET&S  RELATIONS  TO  MACBETH.      245 

have  rendered  him.  Macbeth  replies  in  a  speech  informed  appar- 
ently with  the  very  soul  of  loyalty,  but  in  which  hypocrisy  can  no 
further  go  —  an  hypocrisy  involving,  under  the  circumstances,  the 
basest  dishonor,  and  the  blackest  ingratitude  :  "  The  service  and 
the  loyalty  I  owe,  in  doing  it,  pays  itself  [that  is,  is  its  own 
reward]  :  Your  highness'  part  is  to  receive  our  duties ;  and  our 
duties  are  to  your  throne  and  state,  children  and  servants ;  which 
do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  everything  safe  toward  your 
love  and  honor."  The  meaning  of  which  is  plain  enough,  if  it  be 
not  considered  too  curiously.  Duncan  replies  :  "  Welcome  hither : 
I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour  to  make  thee  full  of 
growing.  Noble  Banquo  that  hast  no  less  deserved,  nor  must  be 
known  no  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  infold  thee  and  hold  thee 
to  my  heart." 

How  genuine  and  simple  Banquo's  reply  !  "  There  if  I  grow, 
the  harvest  is  your  own." 

But  now  comes  the  immediate  motive  for  Macbeth's  evil  desire 
to  go  forth  into  act.  Duncan,  in  the  fulness  of  his  joys,  nominates 
his  eldest  son,  Malcolm,  as  his  successor  to  the  throne  :  "  My  plen- 
teous joys,  wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves  in  drops  of 
sorrow.  —  Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes,  and  you  whose  places  are  the 
nearest,  know  we  will  establish  our  estate  upon  our  eldest,  Mal- 
colm, whom  we  natrie  hereafter  the  Prince  of  Cumberland  ;  which 
honour  must  not  unaccompanied  invest  him  only,  but  signs  of 
nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine  on  all  deservers.  —  From  hence 
to  Inverness,  and  bind  us  further  to  you."  Macbeth  replies  in 
another  hypocritical  and  traitorous  speech  :  "  The  rest  is  labour, 
which  is  not  used  for  you  [that  is,  the  rest  which  is  not  spent  in 
the  King's  service,  is  like  severe  labor].  I'll  be  myself  the  har- 
binger and  make  joyful  the  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach; 
so,  humbly  take  my  leave.  Duncan.  My  worthy  Cawdor  !  " 

Before  Macbeth  goes  out,  he  soliloquizes,  the  King  and  Banquo 
confer  apart  —  the  subject  of  their  conference  being,  as  appears 
from  Duncan's  speech,  Macbeth's  valiant  conduct.  Macbeth 
says  aside  ;  "  The  Prince  of  Cumberland  !  that  is  a  step  on  which 


246        LADY  MACBETWS  RELATIONS   TO  MACBETH. 

I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'erleap,  for  in  my  way  it  lies.  Stars, 
hide  your  fires  !  Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires : 
the  eye  wink  at  the  hand ;  yet  let  that  be  which  the  eye  fears, 
when  it  is  done,  to  see." 

How  prophetic  the  last  sentence  is  !  "  Yet  let  that  be,  which 
the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see." 

In  the  2d  Scene  of  the  26.  Act,  he  says,  after  the  murder  :  "  I'll 
go  no  more  :  I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ;  look  on't 
again  I  dare  not." 

This  soliloquy  is  an  all-sufficient  evidence  that  Macbeth's  regi- 
cidal  intent  was  entirely  independent  of  any  suggestions  from  his 
wife,  as  it  was  entirely  independent  of  any  suggestions  from  the 
weird  sisters.  Lady  Macbeth's  ambition  is  wholly  sympathetic. 
It  is  not  with  her  an  independent  passion  at  all.  When  she 
knows  her  husband's  all-absorbing  desire,  she  sets  about,  in  her 
wifely  devotion,  to  help  him  to  its  realization,  although  she's  fully 
aware  that  she  must  do  fatal  violence  to  her  woman  nature. 

In  the  face  of  this  4th  Scene  of  the  ist  Act,  and,  it  may  be  said, 
in  the  face  of  the  whole  play,  Hazlitt  pronounces  Macbeth  "  full 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  "  (an  expression  used  by  Lady 
Macbeth,  but  not  therefore  true ;  for  she  overestimates  her  hus- 
band at  the  outset  —  she  doesn't  truly  know  him),  "frank  and 
generous.  He  is  tempted  to  the  commission  of  guilt  by  the  insti- 
gations of  his  wife,  and  by  prophetic  warnings.  Fate  and  meta- 
physical aid  conspire  against  his  virtue  and  his  loyalty."  This  is 
an  opinion  substantially  entertained  by  a  large  number  of  Shake- 
spearian critics. 

The  temptation,  on  the  contrary,  was  subjective.  There's  not 
a  particle  of  evidence  in  the  Play  that  the  temptation  originated 
from  without,  either  with  the  witches  or  with  Lady  Macbeth.  In 
their  interview  after  his  soliloquy,  "  If  it  were  done  when  'tis 
done,"  etc.  (A.  I.  Sc.  vii.),  she  says,  in  reply  to  his  speech,  "I 
dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man,"  "what  beast  was't  then 
that  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ?  "  That's  sufficiently 
explicit,  certainly. 


LADY  MACBETH' S  RELATIONS   TO  MACBETH.        247 

Ambition  for  sovereignty  and  masterdom  is  the  mainspring 
motive  of  Macbeth,  but  as  Lloyd,  in  his  "  Critical  Essays,"  more 
correctly  puts  it  than  critics  generally,  Lady  Macbeth  "partici- 
pates in  his  ambition  only  by  sympathy.  No  expression  falls 
from  her  that  indicates  it  as  her  independent  passion,  or  hints 
that  it  was  from  her  original  suggestion  that  it  was  excited  in  her 
husband."  Again  he  says,  "  Subjected  to  the  doom,  she  has  lost 
her  own  individuality  in  that  of  her  husband,  and  in  the  necessity 
to  occupy  the  nearest  place  in  his  interest  and  heart.  She  allies 
herself  with  his  master  passion,  and  becomes  its  minister.  Ambi- 
tion, therefore,  is  not  in  her  absolute  and  self-dependent;  it  is 
the  expression  of  another  feeling  which,  with  a  different  com- 
panipn,  might  have  taken  any  other  turn;  and  hence  her  asso- 
ciation of  the  direst  acts  with  the  offices  and  tenderness  of 
maternity,  is  as  truly  consistent  and  natural  as  momentary  com- 
punction at  the  resemblance  of  the  sleeping  Duncan  to  her 
father." 

In  the  3d  Scene  of  the  2d  Act,  Lady  Macbeth  enters  in  the 
confusion  consequent  upon  the  discovery  and  announcement,  by 
Macduff,  of  the  murder  of  the  King,  and  inquires :  "  What's  the 
business,  that  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley  the  sleepers 
of  the  house?  speak,  speak  !"  And  when  Macbeth  returns  from 
the  chamber  of  the  King,  and,  with  the  blackest  hypocrisy,  de- 
scribes the  horrid  scene,  including  what  Lady  Macbeth  herself 
had  done,  "  the  murderers  steeped  in  the  colors  of  their  trade, 
their  daggers  unmannerly  breached  with  gore,"  the  strain  is  too 
much  for  her,  and  she  faints,  and  is  carried  out.  There's  no 
reason  for  supposing  that  it's  a  sham  faint.  Her  woman  nature 
asserts  itself,  and  she  can  hold  out  no  longer.  It  is  plain,  from 
the  next  scene,  that  she's  quite  broken.  When  Macbeth  enters, 
she  says,  "  How  now,  my  lord  !  Why  do  you  keep  alone,  using 
those  thoughts  which  should  indeed  have  died  with  them  they 
think  on  ?  Things  without  all  remedy  should  be  without  regard  : 
what's  done  is  done." 

She  mistakes  him  here.     He  is  not  suffering  from  remorse  for 


248        LADY  MACBETH' S  RELATIONS    TO  MACBETH. 

what  has  been  done,  but  from  fears  of  what  is  before  him.  He 
replies  to  her  last  speech,  "  We  have  scotch'd  the  snake,  not  kill'd 
it.  She'll  close  and  be  herself,  whilst  our  poor  malice  remains  in 
danger  of  her  former  tooth."  The  rest  of  this  speech  shows  that 
Macbeth  is  ready  to  enter  upon  the  course  in  which  he  will  no 
longer  need  his  wife.  In  reply  to  her  speech,  "  you  must  leave 
this,"  he  says  :  "  Oh,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife  ! " 
This  speech  taken  by  itself  may  easily  be  understood  as  express- 
ing remorse ;  but  the  next  sentence  explains  it :  "  Thou  know'st 
that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance,  lives."  To  her  question,  "What's 
to  be  done?"  he  replies:  "Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge, 
dearest  chuck,  till  thou  applaud  the  deed."  He  needs  her  no 
longer. 

In  the  banquet  scene,  after  the  guests  have  been  dismissed, 
Macbeth  asks,  "  What  is  the  night  ?  "  To  which  she  replies,  "  Al- 
most at  odds  with  morning,  which  is  which."  Here  is  the  point 
where  she  entirely  breaks.  She  has  made  one  additional  effort  to 
sustain  her  husband,  and  can  do  no  more. 

Charlotte  Cushman,  in  her  impersonation  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
rendered  "almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is  which,"  with 
great  effect.  Right  upon  Macbeth's  question,  "  What  is  the 
night?"  she  dropped  passively  into  a  chair,  and  uttered  the  words 
with  an  intonation  of  entire  hopelessness,  which  told  the  whole 
story. 

All  of  Lady  Macbeth's  part  in  the  tragedy,  is  reflected  by  her 
speeches  in  the  night- walking  scene,  the  ist  of  the  5th  Act.  And 
it  is  affecting  to  note  the  contrasts  which  some  of  these  speeches 
present  to  her  earlier  speeches.  In  A.  I.  Sc.  v.  she  says  :  "  Come 
thick  night,  and  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell !  "  In 
A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says,  evidently  thinking  herself  in  hell :  "  Hell  is 
murky  ! "  In  A.  I.  Sc.  v.  she  says :  "  You  shall  put  this  night's 
great  business  into  my  dispatch ;  which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and 
days  to  come,  give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom."  In 
A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says :  "  What  need  we  care  who  knows  it,  when 
none  can  call  our  power  to  account?"  In  the  murder  scene 


LADY  MACBETH'S  RELATIONS    TO  MACBETH.        249 

(A.  II.  Sc.  ii.)  she  says :  "  If  he  do  bleed,  I'll  gild  the  faces  of 
the  grooms  withal,  for  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  In  A.  V.  Sc.  i. 
she  says  :  "  Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had 
so  much  blood  in  him  !  "  In  A.  II.  Sc.  ii.  she  says  :  "  My  hands 
are  of  your  color :  but  I  shame  to  wear  a  heart  so  white."  In 
A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says :  "What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean?  " 
In  the  banquet  scene  (A.  III.  Sc.  iv.)  she  says  :  "  Oh,  these  flaws 
and  starts" — and  "think  of  this,  good  peers,  but  as  a  thing  of 
custom  :  'tis  no  other ;  only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time." 
In  A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says  :  "  No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no  more  o' 
that :  you  mar  all  with  this  starting."  In  the  murder  scene  she 
says  :  "  Go  get  some  water,  and  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your 
hand."  In  A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says :  "  Wash  your  hands,  put  on 
your  nightgown;  look  not  so  pale."  In  the  murder  scene  she 
says  :  "  I  hear  a  knocking  at  the  south  entry :  retire  we  to  our 
chamber :  a  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed :  how  easy  is  it 
then?  "  In  A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says  :  "  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood 
still :  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand. 
Oh,  Oh,  Oh  !  "  In  the  murder  scene  she  says  :  "  Your  constancy 
hath  left  you  unattended.  —  Hark  !  more  knocking.  Get  on  your 
nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us,  and  shew  us  to  be  watchers.  Be 
not  lost  so  poorly  in  your  thoughts."  In  A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she  says : 
"  To  bed,  to  bed  !  there's  knocking  at  the  gate ;  come,  come, 
come,  come,  give  me  your  hand." 

In  A.  Iir.  S.  ii.  she  says  :  "  Things  without  all  remedy  should 
be  without  regard :  what's  done,  is  done."  In  A.  V.  Sc.  i.  she 
says  :  "What's  done,  cannot  be  undone." 

The  artistic  purpose  of  this  night- walking  scene  appears  to  be, 
to  reflect  the  real  womanly  nature  of  Lady  Macbeth  (to  which  she 
did  such  violence  in  the  part  she  took  upon  herself  to  play  that  it 
suffered,  for  a  time,  a  total  eclipse),  and  her  possibilities  for  great 
good  or  great  evil  (the  latter  in  every  man  and  woman  being 
commensurate  with  the  former).  Her  misfortune  was  that  as  a 
wife,  she  sunk  her  individuality  in  her  husband ;  and  terrible  was 
the  penalty  she  paid  for  this.  If  that  individuality  had  rendered 


250        LADY  MACBETH'S  RELATIONS    TO    MACBETH. 

the  same  fealty  to  a  noble  nature,  how  different,  with  its  great 
capabilities  of  love,  would  have  been  the  result !  As  it  was,  she 
"  knew  how  tender  'twas  to  love  the  babe  that  milked  her."  And 
she  shows,  in  one  of  her  speeches,  that  she  had  been  a  loving 
daughter :  "  Had  he  not  resembled  my  father  as  he  slept,  I  had 
donejt," 

The  last  we  hear  of  the  poor  conscience-stricken  queen  is  in  the 
5th  Scene  of  the  5th  Act.  A  cry  within  of  women  is  heard.  On 
which  the  Countess  of  Charlemont  remarks  :  "  She  was  not  all 
evil.  Her  own  sex  and  her  servants  mourned  for  her." 

Macbeth  asks,  when  the  cry  is  heard,  "What  is  that  noise?" 
and  Seyton  replies,  "  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord,"  and 
goes  out  to  learn  the  cause.  When  he  re-enters,  he  says,  "  The 
queen,  my  lord,  is  dead."  Whereupon  Macbeth  soliloquizes : 
"  She  should  have  died  hereafter ;  "  etc.  (In  uttering  the  words, 
"  Out,  out,  brief  candle,"  in  this  soliloquy,  some  actors  strike  their 
breasts,  as  if  the  reference  were  to  Macbeth's  own  light  of  life,  but 
they  should  certainly  be  understood  as  having  reference  to  the 
candle  of  Lady  Macbeth's  life.  Though  commas  are  used  in  the 
First  Folio,  the  words  should  be  uttered  with  an  interrogative  into- 
nation, united  with  that  of  surprise  :  "  Out?  out?  brief  candle?  " 
[out  so  soon  ?]  The  latter  meaning  suits  better,  too,  the  reflec- 
tions which  follow.) 

Dr.  Furnivall  says,  in  a  note  on  a  paper  by  the  Countess  of 
Charlemont,  which  was  read  before  the  New  Shakspere  Society  of 
London,  and  which  takes  the  view  that  Lady  Macbeth's  ambition 
was  wholly  sympathetic  :  "  The  notion  that  Lady  Macbeth  stirred, 
nay  forced,  Macbeth  to  his  villanous  murder,  to  gratify  his  ambi- 
tion only,  and  not  her  own  too,  is  so  in  the  teeth  of  Shakespeare's 
authority,  Holinshed,  '  but  especially  his  wife  lay  sore  upon  him 
to  attempt  the  thing,  as  she  that  was  very  ambitious,  burning  in 
unquenchable  desire  to  bear  the  name  of  queen,'  that  I  don't 
think  the  point  worth  arguing." 

On  this  it  should  be  remarked  (whether  the  theory  that  Lady 
Macbeth's  ambition  was  sympathetic,  be  or  be  not  correct),  that 


LAD  Y  MA  CBE  TWS  RE  LA  TIONS   TO  MA  CBE  TH.        2  5 1 

the  student  of  any  play  of  Shakespeare,  must  not  go  to  the  history 
or  novel  from  which  the  framework  of  the  play  was  derived,  for 
the  interpretation  of  the  characters  of  the  play.  But  commen- 
tators have  frequently  done  this,  when  they  should  have  asked 
themselves  the  question,  what  saith  the  play?  not,  what  saith  the 
original  history  or  novel  on  which  it  is  based?  Shakespeare 
always  brought  an  independent  dramatic  purpose  to  the  adopted 
story  or  history,  by  which  dramatic  purpose  the  movement  of  the 
play  is  determined  and  not  by  the  adopted  story  or  history.  The 
latter  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  interpretation  of  any  of 
the  characters. 


252  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 


ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA. 


r  I  ^HE  date  of  the  composition  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  gen- 
JL  erally  assigned  to  the  year  1607  or  1608,  when  Shakespeare 
was  43  or  44  years  of  age,  in  the  full  maturity  of  his  powers,  and 
when  "the  profoundest  concerns  of  the  individual  soul  were  press- 
ing upon  the  imagination  of  the  poet."  The  Play  ranks  with  his 
grandest  productions,  and  perhaps  surpasses  them  all.  "The 
highest  praise,"  says  Coleridge,  "  or  rather  form  of  praise,  of  this 
Play,  which  I  can  offer  in  my  own  mind,  is  the  doubt  which  the 
perusal  always  occasions  in  me,  whether  the  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
is  not,  in  all  exhibitions  of  a  giant  power,  in  its  strength  and  vigor 
of  maturity,  a  formidable  rival  of  Macbeth,  Lear,  Hamlet,  and 
Othello.  Felidter  audax  is  the  motto  for  its  style  comparatively 
with  that  of  Shakespeare's  other  works,  even  as  it  is  the  general 
motto  of  all  his  works  compared  with  those  of  other  poets.  .  .  . 
As  a  wonderful  specimen  of  the  way  in  which  Shakespeare  lives 
up  to  the  very  end  of  this  play,  read  the  last  part  of  the  conclud- 
ing scene.  And  if  you  would  feel  the  judgment  as  well  as  the 
genius  of  Shakespeare  in  your  heart's  core,  compare  this  astonish- 
ing drama  with  Dryden's  '  All  for  Love,'  which  is  based  on  it." 

Antony  and  Cleopatra  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  tragedy, 
the  moral  interest  predominating  over  the  historical  or  political. 
The  latter  is,  indeed,  entirely  subservient  to  the  former  —  consti- 
tuting a  background  against  which  individualities  are  exhibited. 
Even  Coriolanus,  though  much  stress  has  been  laid  by  some  critics 
upon  its  politico-historical  character  (see  especially  Hazlitt),  is, 
strictly  speaking,  a  tragedy.  As  Swinburne  well  puts  it,  "  the  whole 
force  of  the  final  impression  is  not  that  of  a  conflict  between  patri- 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  253 

cian  and  plebeian,  but  solely  that  of  a  match  of  passions  played 
out  for  life  and  death  between  a  mother  and  a  son.  The  parti- 
sans of  oligarchic  or  democratic  systems  may  wrangle  at  their  will 
over  the  supposed  evidences  of  Shakespeare's  prejudice  against 
this  creed,  and  prepossession  in  favor  of  that :  a  third  bystander 
may  rejoice  in  the  proof  established  of  his  impartial  indifference 
towards  either :  it  is  all  nothing  to  the  real  point  in  hand.  The 
subject  of  the  whole  play  is  not  the  exile's  revolt,  the  rebel's  repent- 
ance, or  the  traitor's  reward,  but  above  all  it  is  the  son's  tragedy. 
The  inscription  on  the  plinth  of  this  tragic  statue  is  simply  to 
Volumnia  Victrix." 

Prof.  Denton  J.  Snider  treats  the  play  as  "  essentially  a  drama 
of  Political  Parties.  .  .  .  Moreover,  the  warring  principles  of  the 
two  parties  are  aristocracy  and  democracy  —  the  conflict  which 
has  always  in  History  been  most  prolific  of  political  strife.  The 
main  characters  are  graded  according  to  their  partisan  bias  and 
intensity,  for  the  essence  of  the  conflict  is  party  versus  country." 

But  it  is  a  mistake,  I  think,  to  impute  a  doctrinal  character 
to  any  play  of  Shakespeare,  whether  that  character  be  moral,  polit- 
ical, religious,  or  philosophical.  Everything  is  held  more  or  less 
in  solution,  in  the  Plays  —  there's  comparatively  little  of  precipi- 
tation, and  hardly  anything  at  all  of  crystallization  into  opinions 
or  doctrines.  (It's  a  marked  characteristic  of  literary  educational 
processes  in  these  days,  that  nothing  is  allowed  to  be  held  in 
solution  in  a  literary  work,  if  it  can  be  precipitated  and  crystal- 
lized into  ideas  and  opinions ;  in  other  words,  if  it  can  be  brought 
into  the  domain  of  the  insulated  intellect.  The  age  would  be 
healthier  if  there  were  less  of  this.) 

Shakespeare  is  always,  and  pre-eminently,  and  exclusively,  the 
dramatist;  but  as  a  dramatist,  he  is  distinguished  from  all  the 
contemporary  dramatists,  in  his  working  more  strictly  than  any 
of  them,  under  the  condition  of  moral  proportion  (and  by  moral 
proportion  I  mean  that  which  is  in  harmony  with  the  permanent 
constitution,  with  the  eternal  fitness,  of  things),  and  this  he  did, 
because,  as  must  be  inferred,  he  felt  more  than  did  any  other  of 


254  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

the  contemporary  dramatists,  the  constitution  of  things,  and  knew 
that  that  constitution  of  things  could  not  be  violated  with  impu- 
nity. To  unite  moral  proportion  with  a  more  or  less  unrestrained 
play  of  the  passions,  is  the  great  artistic  achievement  of  Shake- 
speare, in  his  tragic  masterpieces.  And  when  a  critic  looks  into 
his  Plays  with  an  eye  for  the  doctrinal,  he  can  easily  find  it  there, 
because  the  best  results  of  human  philosophy  in  its  several  depart- 
ments have  been  induced  and  deduced  from  careful  observations 
of  the  permanent  constitution  of  things,  and  therefore  correspond 
more  or  less  with  the  philosophy  concretely  embodied  in  the 
Plays.  The  concrete  philosophy  and  the  abstract  philosophy  are 
based  on,  or  derived  from,  the  same  permanent  constitution  of 
things. 

Accordingly,  it's  easy  for  any  one  with  philosophical  tendencies 
to  mistake  the  artist,  or  creator,  for  the  explicit  teacher.  The 
great  artist  works  within  boundless  nature,  and  in  conformity  with 
nature ;  and  in  his  works  may  be  found  the  same  principles  which 
are  found  in  nature.  But  we  must  not  suppose  that  he  first 
educed  these  principles  before  he  embodied  them  —  that  he 
started  with  abstractions,  and  translated  them  into  the  concrete. 
No ;  the  true  artist  uses  the  concrete  as  a  native  language,  so 
to  speak ;  and  the  abstract  principles  which  may  be  found  in  his 
work,  are  involved  in  the  creative  movement,  and  did  not,  in  an 
abstract  form,  predetermine  that  movement. 

There's  no  partisanship  in  Shakespeare's  Plays,  political,  relig- 
ious, or  any  other,  though  he  lived  at  a  time  when  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  be  neutral  in  regard  to  many  things,  and  especially 
in  regard  to  religion.  The  great  body  of  the  people  was  com- 
posed of  two  classes,  —  one  strongly  Roman  Catholic  and  one 
strongly  Protestant.  There  must  have  been  very  few  half  and  half 
religious  people  in  those  days.  Shakespeare's  impartiality,  as  exhib- 
ited in  his  Plays,  in  regard  to  religion  and  government,  could  not 
fairly  be  ascribed  to  a  religious  and  political  indifference  —  to  his 
having  no  strong  feeling  one  way  or  the  other ;  it  should  rather  be 
ascribed  to  his  affinities  as  an  artist,  a  great  creator,  for  the  essen- 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  255 

tial  or  the  real,  rather  than  for  the  phenomenal  or  the  actual  — 
for  the  permanent  rather  than  for  the  conventional  —  for  the  spirit 
rather  than  for  the  letter,  so  to  speak.  He  was  too  complete  a 
man  to  take  one-sided  views  of  things ;  and  partisanship  of  any 
kind  implies  generally  a  more  or  less  one-sidedness  of  view ;  and 
the  stronger,  the  more  violent  the  partisanship,  the  more  exclusive 
the  one-sidedness  of  view.  The  impartiality  of  Shakespeare,  in  a 
religious  point  of  view,  is  especially  shown  in  his  King  John,  as 
compared  with  the  earlier  play,  "The  Troublesome  Reign  of 
King  John,"  whose  general  casting,  but  none  of  its  moulding, 
religious  spirit  Shakespeare  adopted  in  his  play. 

The  question  as  to  whether  Shakespeare  was  Roman  Catholic 
or  Protestant  has  been  more  than  sufficiently  discussed,  but  with 
no  conclusive  results.  And  so  the  question  as  to  whether  he  was 
aristocratic  in  his  proclivities  or  democratic,  cannot  be  answered 
with  any  more  certainty  than  that  in  regard  to  his  religious  creed. 
If  it  could  be  answered  at  all,  Coriolanus  is  the  play  to  which  we 
should  go  for  the  answer.  But  no  conclusive  answer  can  be  got 
from  this  play  as  to  his  political  creed.  Its  political  character  is 
a  background  for  the  exhibition  of  personal  character.  It's  a 
drama  of  individuality,  as  are  all  of  Shakespeare's  dramas,  more 
or  less,  whatever  be  their  framework.  It  was  never  his  aim,  his 
direct  aim,  to  embody  abstract  principles  —  although  the  profound- 
est  principles  are  operative  in  his  creations.  His  dramatic  motive 
is  individuality,  personality,  acting  and  exhibiting  itself  under  out- 
ward conditions  and  collisions,  those  conditions  or  collisions  being 
political,  social,  domestic,  or  what  not.  Shakespeare  is,  in  one 
sense,  and  that  the  very  highest,  a  moralist,  and  a  social  and 
political  philosopher ;  that  is,  he  is  concretely  these ;  he  embodies 
the  principles  of  morality  and  of  social  and  political  philosophy, 
and  thus  vitalizes  and  emphasizes  them  to  a  degree  beyond  what 
any  abstract  enunciation  could  do.*  And  it  is  all-important  that 


*  Perhaps  to  say  that  he  embodies  the  principles  of  morality,  and  of  social 
and  political  philosophy,  may  convey  a  wrong  idea.     It  is  better  to  say  that 


256  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

the  student  of  his  works  should  come  into  as  full  a  sympathy  as 
possible  with  the  concrete  embodiment,  which  is  the  product  of 
this  creative  energy  (even  if  he  have  no  consciousness  of  any 
immanent  principle).  If  his  mind  be  set  in  an  abstract  direction, 
and  he  aim  to  translate  the  word  made  flesh  into  the  abstract 
word,  he  shuts  himself  off  more  or  less  from  a  vitalizing  sympathy 
with  the  concrete. 

Professor  Delius,  at  the  conclusion  of  his  2d  paper  "  On  Shake- 
speare's Use  of  Narration  in  his  Dramas  "  (Transactions  of  the 
New  Shakspere  Society,  1875-6,  Part  I.  p.  345),  remarks:  "In 
the  two  last  Acts  [of  Antony  and  Cleopatra],  Shakespeare  evi- 
dently allows  the  psychological  and  personal  interest  attaching  to 
the  two  principal  actors  in  his  drama  to  outweigh  the  historical 
interest.  The  further  action  up  to  the  tragic  end  is  scenically 
enacted  before  our  eyes,  within  a  narrower  compass,  so  that  the 
poet  had  no  need  to  again  make  use  of  the  epic  element." 

It  seems  to  be  assumed  by  Professor  Delius,  in  the  first  of  these 
sentences,  that  the  historical  interest  is  the  dominant  one  in  the 
first  three  Acts  of  the  drama;  and  he  asserts  that  "in  the  two  last 
Acts,  Shakespeare  allows  the  psychological  and  personal  interest 
attaching  to  the  two  principal  actors  to  outweigh  the  historical 
interest."  Which  would  seem  to  mean  that  Shakespeare,  after 
working  through  three  Acts  with  a  historical  interest,  was  finally 
carried  out  of  his  course  by  a  psychological  and  personal  interest. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  this  latter  interest  is  the  dominant  one  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  Play,  and  outweighs  the  historical 
interest  which  is  subsidiary  to  it.  Shakespeare  always  strikes  dis- 
tinctly and  unmistakably  the  keynotes  of  his  Plays  in  the  opening 
scenes. 

The  key  note  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  struck  in  the  initial 
sentence.  Philo  says  to  Demetrius  : 


these  principles  were  more  or  less  unconsciously  involved  in  the  current  of 
his  creative  energy  —  which  creative  energy  must  have  been  in  the  fullest 
harmony  with  the  constitution  of  things. 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

•'Nay,  but  this  dotage  of  our  general's 
O'erflows  the  measure  :  those  his  goodly  eyes, 
That  o'er  the  files  and  musters  of  the  war 
Have  glow'd  like  plated  Mars,  now  bend,  now  turn, 
The  office  and  devotion  of  their  view 
Upon  a  tawny  front :  his  captain's  heart, 
Which  in  the  scuffles  of  great  fights  hath  burst 
The  buckles  on  his  breast,  reneges  all  temper, 
And  is  become  the  bellows  and  the  fan 
To  cool  a  gipsy's  lust." 

Here,  announced  by  a  flourish,  enter  Antony,  Cleopatra,  her 
Ladies,  the  Train,  with  Eunuchs  fanning  her.  Philo  continues  his 
speech  aside  to  Demetrius  : 

"  Look,  where  they  come : 
Take  but  good  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  him 
The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  transform'd 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool :  behold  and  see." 

In  the  4th  Scene  of  the  ist  Act,  the  self-poised  Octavius  re- 
counts to  Lepidus,  Antony's  life  in  Alexandria  : 

"  From  Alexandria 

This  is  the  news :  he  fishes,  drinks,  and  wastes 
The  lamps  of  night  in  revel ;  is  not  more  manlike 
Than  Cleopatra ;  nor  the  queen  of  Ptolemy 
More  womanly  than  he  ;  hardly  gave  audience,  or 
Vouchsafed  to  think  he  had  partners :  you  shall  find  there 
A  man  who  is  the  abstract  of  all  faults 
That  all  men  follow." 

Lepidus,  who,  with  a  sense  of  his  weakness  and  insecurity  in  the 
triumvirate,  is  ever  disposed  to  smooth  down  all  roughnesses,  at- 
tempts a  defence  of  his  erring  colleague  : 

"  I  must  not  think  there  are 
Evils  enow  to  darken  all  his  goodness : 
His  faults  in  him  seem  as  the  spots  of  heaven, 
More  fiery  by  night's  blackness ;  hereditary, 
Rather  than  purchased ;  what  he  cannot  change, 
Than  what  he  chooses." 


258  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Octavius  replies  : 

' '  You  are  too  indulgent.     Let  us  grant,  it  is  not 
Amiss  to  tumble  on  the  bed  of  Ptolemy ; 
To  give  a  kingdom  for  a  mirth  ;  to  sit 
And  keep  the  turn  of  tippling  with  a  slave ; 
To  reel  the  streets  at  noon,  and  stand  the  buffet 
With  knaves  that  smell  of  sweat:  say  this  becomes  him, — 
As  his  composure  must  be  rare  indeed 
Whom  these  things  cannot  blemish, — yet  must  Antony 
No  way  excuse  his  soils,  when  we  do  bear 
So  great  weight  in  his  likeness.     If  he  filled 
His  vacancy  with  his  voluptuousness, 
Full  surfeits,  and  the  dryness  of  his  bones, 
Call  on  him  for't:  but  to  confound  such  time, 
That  drums  him  from  his  sport,  and  speaks  as  loud 
As  his  own  state  and  ours,  —  'tis  to  be  chid 
As  we  rate  boys,  who,  being  mature  in  knowledge, 
Pawn  their  experience  to  their  present  pleasure, 
And  so  rebel  to  judgement." 

Here  a  messenger  enters  and  informs  Octavius  of  Pompey's 
strength  at  sea,  that  the  malcontents  are  repairing  to  the  ports, 
that  Menecrates  and  Menas,  famous  pirates,  control  the  sea,  and 
make  many  hot  inroads  in  Italy.  These  bad  news  leads  Octavius 
to  contrast  Antony's  present  life  of  ruinous  voluptuousness  with  the 
heroic  promise  of  his  earlier  life,  when  no  kinds  of  hardship  were 
too  much  for  him  to  endure  : 

"  Antony, 

Leave  thy  lascivious  wassails.     When  thou  once 

Wast  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou  slew'st 

Hirtius  and  Pansa,  consuls,  at  thy  heel 

Did  famine  follow ;  whom  thou  fought'st  against, 

Though  daintily  brought  up,  with  patience  more 

Than  savages  could  suffer  :  thou  didst  drink 

The  stale  of  horses,  and  the  gilded  puddle 

Which  beasts  would  cough  at :  thy  palate  then  did  deign 

The  roughest  berry  on  the  rudest  hedge ; 

Yea,  like  the  stag,  when  snow  the  pasture  sheets, 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  259 

The  barks  of  trees  thou  browsecTst ;  on  the  Alps 
It  is  reported  thou  didst  eat  strange  flesh, 
Which  some  did  die  to  look  on :  and  all  this  — 
It  wounds  thine  honour  that  I  speak  it  now — 
Was  borne  so  like  a  soldier,  that  thy  cheek 
So  much  as  lank'd  not.* 

Lep.  'Tis  pity  of  him. 

Cces.   Let  his  shames  quickly 
Drive  him  to  Rome :  'tis  time  we  twain 
Did  show  ourselves  i'  the  field ;  and  to  that  end 
Assemble  we  immediate  council :  Pompey 
Thrives  in  our  idleness." 


*  What  Octavius  says  of  Antony's  former  life,  affords  a  good  illustration  of 
how  closely  Shakespeare  follows  his  original,  namely,  North's  Plutarch. 

"  Cicero  on  the  other  side,  being  at  that  time  the  chiefest  man  of  authority 
and  estimation  in  the  city,  he  stirred  up  all  men  against  Antonius :  so  that  in 
the  end  he  made  the  senate  pronounce  him  an  enemy  to  his  country,  and 
appointed  young  Csesar  sergeants,  to  carry  axes  before  him,  and  such  other 
signs  as  were  incident  to  the  dignity  of  a  Consul  or  Prsetor :  and  moreover, 
sent  Hircius  and  Pansa,  then  Consuls,  to  drive  Antonius  out  of  Italy.  These 
two  Consuls,  together  with  Caesar,  who  also  had  an  army,  went  against  Anto- 
nius that  besieged  the  city  of  Modena,  and  there  overthrew  him  in  battle  :  but 
both  the  Consuls  were  slain  there. 

"  Antonius,  flying  from  this  overthrow,  fell  into  great  misery  all  at  once :  but 
the  chiefest  want  of  all  other,  and  that  pinched  him  most,  was  famine.  How- 
beit  he  was  of  such  a  strong  nature,  that  by  patience 1  he  would  overcome  any 
adversity :  and  the  heavier  fortune  lay  upon  him,  the  more  constant  showed 
he  himself.  Every  man  that  feeleth  want  or  adversity,  knoweth  by  virtue  and 
discretion  what  he  should  do:  but  when  indeed  they  are  overlaid  with  ex- 
tremity, and  be  sore  oppressed,  few  have  the  hearts  to  follow  that  which  they 
praise  and  commend,  and  much  less  to  avoid  that  they  reprove  and  mislike : 
but  rather  to  the  contrary,  they  yield  to  their  accustomed  easy  life,  and 
through  faint  heart,  and  lack  of  courage,  do  change  their  first  mind  and  pur- 
pose. And  therefore  it  was  a  wonderful  example  to  the  soldiers,  to  see  An- 
tonius, that  was  brought  up  in  all  fineness  and  superfluity,  so  easily  to  drink 
puddle  water,  and  to  eat  wild  fruits  and  roots :  and  moreover  it  is  reported, 
that  even  as  they  passed  the  Alps,  they  did  eat  the  barks  of  trees,  and  such 
beasts  as  never  man  tasted  of  their  flesh  before." 

1  endurance. 


260  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

In  these  speeches,  artistically  important  in  respect  to  Antony 
(for  the  poet's  purpose  is  to  emphasize  his  great  possibilities),  the 
character  of  Octavius  is  also  reflected  —  the  man  before  whom 
Sextus  Pompeius  and  Antony  and  Lepidus  must  give  way,  and  who 
is  to  effect  a  realization  of  the  tendency  of  the  time  to  imperialism. 
Octavius  is  the  representative  of  the  spirit  of  Caesar  which  Brutus 
and  Cassius,  in  the  Play  of  Julius  Caesar,  did  not  take  sufficient 
account  of  when  they  planned  and  effected  his  assassination. 
They  killed  his  body,  but  had  no  power  over  his  spirit.  This  they 
both  discovered  on  the  plains  of  Philippi,  Cassius's  last  words 
being,  "  Caesar,  thou  art  revenged,  even  with  the  sword  that  killed 
thee."  And  Brutus,  when  he  learns  of  Cassius's  death,  exclaims, 
"  O  Julius  Caesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet !  thy  spirit  walks  abroad, 
and  turns  our  swords  in  our  own  proper  entrails." 

This  then  is  the  dramatic  situation :  a  man  of  extraordinary 
possibilities,  altogether  of  colossal  but  unsymmetrical  proportions, 
brought  under  the  sway  of  a  fascinating  woman  —  fascinating  in  a 
sensuous  direction  —  with  all  possible  adventitious  aids  to  her  in- 
strinsic  fascination ;  but  to  induce  a  vigorous  resistance  to  this  sway 
under  which  he  is  brought,  and  to  save  him  from  becoming  a  help- 
less victim  of  her  magic,  the  greatest  possible  demands  are  made 
upon  his  asserting  his  nobler  self —  demands  which,  if  met,  would 
enable  him  "  to  walk  the  earth  with  dominion,"  though  wanting  in 
the  civic  genius  of  his  colleague  in  the  triumvirate,  Octavius.  He 
is  an  unparalleled  illustration  of  what  Hamlet  is  made  to  give 
expression  to  (A.  I.  Sc.  iv.  23-38)  : 

"  So,  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men, 
That  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them, 
As  in  their  birth,  —  wherein  they  are  not  guilty, 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin,  — 
By  the  overgrowth  of  some  complexion, 
Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason, 
Or  by  some  habit  that  too  much  o'er-leavens 
The  form  of  plausive  manners  ;  that  these  men,  — 
Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect, 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  261 

Being  nature's  livery,  or  fortune's  star,  — 
Their  virtues  else  —  be  they  as  pure  as  grace, 
As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo  — 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  fault ;  the  dram  of  eale 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  of  a  doubt 
To  his  own  scandal." 

This  passage  expresses  the  very  theme  of  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra as  a  tragedy ;  and  when  Shakespeare  wrote  it,  he  had 
already,  there  can  be  little  or  no  doubt,  produced  the  play  of 
Julius  Caesar,  and  had  seen  in  the  character  of  Antony,  notwith- 
standing all  its  great  elements,  the  fatal  consequences  of  a 
"vicious  mole  of  nature."  Antony  may  have  been  in  his  mind 
when  he  wrote  this  passage.  Thomas  De  Quincey,  in  his  volume 
on  "The  Caesars,"  credits  Shakespeare  with  an  insight  into  the 
grand  possibilities  of  Antony's  nature,  which  the  Romans  them- 
selves could  not  have  had  :  "  Shakespeare,"  he  says,  "  had  a  just 
conception  of  the  original  grandeur  which  lay  beneath  that  wild 
tempestuous  nature  presented  by  Antony  to  the  eye  of  the  undis- 
criminating  world.  It  is  to  the  honor  of  Shakespeare  that  he 
should  have  been  able  to  discern  the  true  coloring  of  this  most 
original  character  under  the  smoke  and  tarnish  of  antiquity.  It  is 
no  less  to  the  honor  of  the  great  triumvir,  that  a  strength  of  color- 
ing should  survive  in  his  character,  capable  of  baffling  the  wrongs 
and  ravages  of  time.  Neither  is  it  to  be  thought  strange  that  a 
character  should  have  been  misunderstood  and  falsely  appreciated 
for  nearly  two  thousand  years.  It  happens  not  uncommonly,  es- 
pecially amongst  an  unimaginative  people,  like  the  Romans,  that 
the  characters  of  men  are  ciphers  and  enigmas  to  their  own  age, 
and  are  first  read  and  interpreted  by  a  far  distant  posterity.  .  .  . 
Men  like  Mark  Antony,  with  minds  of  chaotic  composition  — 
light  conflicting  with  darkness,  proportions  of  colossal  grandeur 
disfigured  by  unsymmetrical  arrangement,  the  angelic  in  close 
neighborhood  with  the  brutal  —  are  first  read  in  their  true  meaning 
by  an  age  learned  in  the  philosophy  of  the  human  heart.  Of  this 


262  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

philosophy  the  Romans  had,  by  the  necessities  of  education  and 
domestic  discipline,  not  less  than  by  original  constitution  of  mind, 
the  very  narrowest  visual  range.  .  .  .  Not  man  in  his  own 
peculiar  nature,  but  man  in  his  relations  to  other  men,  was  the 
station  from  which  the  Roman  speculators  took  up  their  philoso- 
phy of  human  nature.  Tried  by  such  standard,  Mark  Antony 
would  be  found  wanting.  As  a  citizen,  he  was  irretrievably  licen- 
tious, and  therefore  there  needed  not  the  bitter  personal  feud, 
which  circumstances  had  generated  between  them,  to  account  for 
the  acharnement  with  which  Cicero  pursued  him.  Had  Antony 
been  his  friend  even,  or  his  near  kinsman,  Cicero  must  still  have 
been  his  public  enemy.  And  not  merely  for  his  vices ;  for  even 
the  grander  features  of  his  character,  his  towering  ambition,  his 
magnanimity,  and  the  fascinations  of  his  popular  qualities,  —  were 
all,  in  the  circumstances  of  those  times,  and  in  his  disposition,  of 
a  tendency  dangerously  uncivic. 

"  So  remarkable  was  the  opposition,  at  all  points,  between  the 
second  Caesar  and  his  rival,  that  whereas,  Antony  even  in  his 
virtues  seemed  dangerous  to  the  state,  Octavius  gave  a  civic  color- 
ing to  his  most  indifferent  actions,  and,  with  a  Machiavelian  policy, 
observed  a  scrupulous  regard  to  the  forms  of  the  Republic,  after 
every  fragment  of  the  republican  institutions,  the  privileges  of  the 
republican  magistrates,  and  the  functions  of  the  great  popular 
officers,  had  been  absorbed  into  his  own  autocracy.  Even  in  the 
most  prosperous  days  of  the  Roman  state,  when  the  democratic 
forces  balanced,  and  were  balanced  by,  those  oi  the  aristocracy,  it 
was  far  from  being  a  general  or  common  praise,  that  a  man  was 
of  a  civic  turn  of  mind,  animo  civili.  Yet  this  praise  did  Augustus 
affect,  and  in  reality  attain,  at  a  time  when  the  very  object  of  all 
civic  feeling  was  absolutely  extinct ;  so  much  are  men  governed 
by  words." 

The  occasion  of  Antony's  meeting  with  Cleopatra  —  an  impor- 
tant artistic  feature  of  the  Play,  as  it  strikes  the  keynote  to  the 
sensuous  fascination  of  which  Antony  is  to  be  the  victim  —  Shake- 
speare found  fully  described  in  Plutarch ;  but  while  following  Plu- 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  263 

tarch  very  closely,  he  gives  additional  touches  to  his  prose  original 
which  heighten  its  coloring,  and  impart  an  imaginative  glow  to  the 
whole  picture. 

The  description,  in  the  Play,  is  given  by  Enobarbus  to  Agrippa, 
in  the  2d  Scene  of  the  2d  Act,  beginning  at  the  ig6th  line-i 

North's  "  Plutarch  "  reads  :  "...  she  disdained  to  set  forward 
otherwise,  but  to  take  her  barge  in  the  river  of  Cydnus ;  the  poop 
whereof  was  of  gold,  the  sails  of  purple,  and  the  oars  of  silver, 
which  kept  stroke  in  the  rowing  after  the  sound  of  the  music  of 
flutes,  howboys,  cithernes,  viols,  and  such  other  instruments  as 
they  played  upon  in  the  barge." 
Shakespeare : 

"  The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 
Burn'd  on  the  water ;  the  poop  was  beaten  gold ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them ;  the  oars  were  silver, 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke  and  made 
The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes." 

North  : 

"And  now  for  the  person  of  her  self,  she  was  laid  under  a 
pavilion  of  cloth  of  gold  of  tissue,  apparelled  and  attired  like  the 
goddess  Venus,  commonly  drawn  in  picture  :  and  hard  by  her, 
on  either  hand  of  her,  pretty  fair  boys  apparelled  as  painters  do 
set  forth  god  Cupid,  with  little  fans  in  their  hands,  with  the  which 
they  fanned  wind  upon  her." 

Shakespeare  : 

"  For  her  own  person, 
It  beggar'd  all  description :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  —  cloth-of-gold  of  tissue  — 
CVerpicturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature :  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  diverse  colour'd  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid  did. 
Agr.   O,  rare  for  Antony !  " 


264  ANT  ON  y  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

North : 

"  Her  ladies  and  gentlewomen  also,  the  fairest  of  them,  were 
apparelled  like  the  nymphs  Nereids  (which  are  the  mermaids  of 
the  waters)  and  like  the  Graces ;  some  steering  the  helm,  others 
tending  the  tackle  and  ropes  of  the  barge,  out  of  the  which  there 
came  a  wonderful  passing*  sweet  savour  of  perfumes,  that  perfum'd 
the  wharfs  side,  pestered  \  with  innumerable  multitudes  of  people." 
Shakespeare : 

"  Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adornings  :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers ;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs." 
North : 

"  Some  of  them  followed  the  barge  all  along  the  river-side : 
others  also  ran  out  of  the  city  to  see  her  coming  in.  So  that  in 
the  end,  there  ran  such  multitudes  of  people  one  after  another  to 
see  her,  that  Antonius  was  left  post  J  alone  in  the  market-place, 
in  his  imperial  seat,  to  give  audience." 

Shakespeare : 

"  The  city  cast 

Her  people  out  upon  her ;  and  Antony, 
Enthroned  in  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 
Agr.   Rare  Egyptian  ! " 
North  : 

"And  there  went  a  rumour  in  the  people's  mouths,  that  the 
goddess  Venus  was  come  to  play  with  the  god  Bacchus,  for  the 
general  good  of  all  Asia.  When  Cleopatra  landed,  Antonius  sent 
to  invite  her  to  supper  to  him.  But  she  sent  him  word  again,  he 


*  surpassingly.  f  crowded.  \  posted. 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  26$ 

should   do   better  rather  to  come  and  sup  with  her.     Antonius, 
therefore,  to  shew  himself  courteous  unto  her  at  her  arrival,  was 
contented  to  obey  her,  and  went  to  supper  to  her  :  where  he  found 
such  passing  sumptuous  fare,  that  no  tongue  can  express  it." 
Shakespeare : 

"  Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper  :  she  replied, 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest ; 
Which  she  entreated  :  our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  *  No  '  woman  heard  speak, 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast, 
And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only." 

There  should  be  noted,  in  the  first  place,  the  slight  circumstan- 
tial omissions  Shakespeare  makes,  which  were  not  essential  to 
his  purpose.  But  what  is  chiefly  remarkable,  are  the  additions 
he  makes  to  his  prose  original :  his  imagination  projects  itself  into 
inanimate  things  and  impassions  them.  For  example,  the  winds 
are  represented  as  love- sick  with  the  perfumes  from  the  sails ;  the 
water  beat  by  the  silver  oars,  follows  faster,  as  if  amorous  of  their 
strokes;  the  silken  tackle  swell  with  the  touches  of  the  flower-soft 
hands  that  tend  them  ;  the  very  air  of  the  city,  whose  inhabitants 
had  all  gone  out  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra,  is  represented  as  eager  to 
go  and  gaze  upon  her  too,  but  that  it  feared  to  make  a  gap  in 
nature  ! 

In  such  a  highly-colored  and  richly-sensuous  passage,  the  great  /  , 
artist  creates  the  atmosphere  in  which  the  passion- fated  pair  are  j 
exhibited. 

Now  what  moral  problem  was  involved  in  the  dramatic  treat- 
ment of  such  a  theme  ?  It  could  be  said,  a  priori,  that  the  prob- 
lem consisted  in  shutting  off  sympathy  with  moral  obliquity,  and 
inviting  sympathy  with  moral  freedom  so  far  as  the  latter  is 
asserted,  on  the  part  of  the  principal  actors.  And  just  this,  it  will 
be  seen,  Shakespeare  has  done.  We  are  nowhere  brought  into  a 
sympathetic  relationship  with  the  moral  obliquity  of  either  Antony 


266  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

or  Cleopatra.  We  are  protected  by  the  moral  spirit  with  which 
the  dramatist  works,  from  any  perversion  of  the  moral  judgment. 
And  this  protection  is  positive  rather  than  negative  ;  for  the  moral 
judgment  is  stimulated  to  its  best  activity,  throughout  the  play. 

An  interesting  feature  of  the  play,  bearing  on  its  moral  spirit,  is 
that  part  of  its  narrated  element  which  pertains  to  the  hero  and 
heroine  —  what  is  told  of  Antony  and  of  Cleopatra,  instead  of  be- 
ing brought  dramatically  forward.  Professor  Delius,  in  his  valu- 
able papers  "  On  Shakespeare's  Use  of  Narration  in  his  Dramas," 
attributes  too  much,  perhaps,  of  the  narrated  element,  to  the  defi- 
ciencies of  the  stage  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  not  enough  to 
the  perspective  the  artist  aimed  after,  by  his  use  of  narration,  and 
to  the  moral  proportion  of  a  play.  What  is  thrown  into  the  back- 
ground by  narration  often  serves  moral  proportion  by  its  being 
thus  kept  apart  from  our  sympathies.  This  is  especially  the  case 
with  the  tragedy  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

In  the  opening  scene,  when  Cleopatra  urges  Antony  to  hear  the 
messengers  who  have  brought  news  from  Rome,  he  replies : 

"  Let  Rome  in  Tiber  melt,  and  the  wide  arch 
Of  the  ranged  empire  fall !    Here  is  my  space. 
Kingdoms  are  clay :  our  dungy  earth  alike 
Feeds  beast  as  man  :  the  nobleness  of  life 
Is  to  do  thus  ;  when  such  a  mutual  pair  [Embracing. 

And  such  a  twain  can  do't,  in  which  I  bind, 
On  pain  of  punishment,  the  world  to  weet 
We  stand  up  peerless."  —  A.  I.  Sc.  i.  33-39. 

When  Cleopatra  again  urges  him  to  hear  the  messengers,  he 

replies : 

"  Fie,  wrangling  queen  ! 

Whom  everything  becomes,  to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself,  in  thee,  fair  and  admired ! 
No  messenger,  but  thine."  — A.  I.  Sc.  i.  48-52. 

In  the  2d  Scene,  after  having  learned  from  the  messenger,  of 
the  death  of  Fulvia,  Antony  says  in  his  temporary  contrition,  "  I 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  267 

must  from  this  enchanting  queen  break  off"  (A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  132). 
Further  on  he  says,  "  Would  I  had  never  seen  her  ! "  to  which 
Enobarbus  replies,  "  O,  sir,  you  had  then  left  unseen  a  wonder- 
ful piece  of  work ;  which  not  to  have  been  blest  withal  would  have 
discredited  your  travel  "  (A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  155-158).  In  Act  II.  Sc.  ii. 
234-245,  he  says : 

"  I  saw  her  once 

Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street ; 

And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted, 

That  she  did  make  defect  perfection, 

And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth.  .  .  . 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 

Her  infinite  variety :  other  women  cloy 

The  appetites  they  feed :  but  she  makes  hungry 

Where  most  she  satisfies  :  for  vilest  things 

Become  themselves  in  her ;  that  the  holy  priests 

Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish." 

Scarus,  speaking  of  the  disastrous  sea-fight,  says  (A.  III.  Sc.  x. 
18-21)  : 

' '  She  once  being  loof  d, 
The  noble  ruin  of  her  magic,  Antony, 
Claps  on  his  sea-wing,  and,  like  a  doting  mallard, 
Leaving  the  fight  in  height,  flies  after  her." 

After  his  shameful  flight  from  the  engagement  at  sea,  Antony 
says  to  Cleopatra  (A.  III.  Sc.  xi.  51-71)  : 

"  Ant.   O,  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt?    See, 
How  I  convey  my  shame  out  of  thine  eyes 
By  looking  back  what  I  have  left  behind 
'Stroy'd  in  dishonour. 

Cleo.  O  my  lord,  my  lord, 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails  !     I  little  thought 
You  would  have  followed. 

Ant.  Egypt,  thou  knew'st  too  well 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings, 
And  thou  shouldst  tow  me  after :  o'er  my  spirit 


268  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st,  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  ot  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleo.  O,  my  pardon ! 

Ant.  Now  I  must 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I  pleased, 
Making  and  marring  fortunes.     You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleo.  Pardon,  pardon ! 

Ant.   Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say ;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost :  give  me  a  kiss  ; 
Even  this  repays  me." 

In  the  4th  Act,  i4th  Scene,  when  all  is  lost,  and  he  believes 
that  Cleopatra  has  "pack'd  cards  with  Caesar,  and  false-play'd 
his  glory  unto  an  enemy's  triumph,"  the  eunuch  Mardian  enters 
and  informs  him  (though  falsely)  that  Cleopatra  is  dead.  He  at 
once  resolves  to  follow  her  to  the  shades  : 

"  I  will  o'ertake  thee,  Cleopatra,  and 
Weep  for  my  pardon.     So  it  must  be,  for  now 
All  length  is  torture :  since  the  torch  is  out, 
Lie  down,  and  stray  no  farther :  now  all  labour 
Mars  what  it  does ;  yea,  very  force  entangles 
Itself  with  strength :  seal  then,  and  all  is  done. 
Eros !  —  I  come,  my  queen :  —  Eros  !  —  Stay  for  me  : 
Where  souls  do  couch  on  flowers,  we1!!  hand  in  hand, 
And  with  our  sprightly  port  make  the  ghosts  gaze : 
Dido  and  her  vEneas  shall  want  troops, 
And  all  the  haunt  be  ours."  —  A.  IV.  Sc.  xiv.  44-54. 

The  fascination  which  Cleopatra  exercised  upon  Antony,  could 
hardly  be  more  strongly  expressed  than  it  is  here  —  a  fascination 
which,  he  imagines,  will,  even  in  the  world  of  spirits,  draw  all 
ghosts  after  them. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  269 

After  he  has  stabbed  himself,  and  has  been  borne  to  the  monu- 
ment wherein  Cleopatra  has  shut  herself  with  her  attendants,  he 
says  to  her : 

"  I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying;  only 
I  here  importune  death  awhile,  until 
Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips."  —  A.  IV.  Sc.  xv.  18-21. 

And  then  the  attachment  and  devotion  unto  death  of  her  at- 
tendants, Charmian  and  Iras,  reflect  the  mysterious  charm  which 
she  wrought  upon  all  that  approached  her.  When  she  is  attired 
for  death  in  her  royal  robes,  and  crowned,  she  kisses  her  two 
women,  and  Iras  thereupon  falls  and  dies,  she  having,  as  must  be 
supposed,  secretly  applied  an  asp  to  her  arm.  After  Cleopatra 
dies  from  the  bite  of  the  asp,  Charmian  says  : 

"  So,  fare  thee  well. 

Now  boast  thee,  death,  in  thy  possession  lies 
A  lass  unparallel'd.     Downy  windows,  close ; 
And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 
Of  eyes  again  so  royal !     Your  crown's  awry ; 
I'll  mend  it,  and  then  play."  —  A.  V.  Sc.  ii.  227-232. 

There's  a  deep  pathos  in  Cleopatra's  crown  being  awry,  as  she 
lies  dead,  in  her  royal  robes,  upon  the  couch ;  and  in  Charmian's 
last  sentence,  "  I'll  mend  it,"  (that  is,  adjust  it),  "and  then  play." 
And  when  the  guard  rushes  in,  she  applies  to  her  arm  an  asp ; 
and,  to  the  question  of  one  of  the  guard,  who  sees  that.  Cleopatra 
is  dead,  "Charmian,  is  this  well  done?"  she  replies,  "  It  is  well 
done,  and  fitting  for  a  princess  descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
Ah,  soldier  !  "  and  dies. 

And  when  Octavius  comes  in,  the  first  guard  says  to  him : 

"O  Caesar, 

This  Charmian  lived  but  now ;  she  stood  and  spake : 
I  found  her  trimming  up  the  diadem 
On  her  dead  mistress :  tremblingly  she  stood 
And  on  the  sudden  dropp'd."  —  A.  V,  Sc,  ii.  343-347. 


2/0  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

The  astute  Caesar  says,  as  he  gazes  upon  the  dead  queen  : 

"  She  looks  like  sleep, 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace."  —  A.  V.  Sc.  ii.  349-351. 

These  passages  sufficiently  indicate  the  fascination  which  the 
Egyptian  queen  exerted  upon  those  about  her.  And  before  An- 
tony came  under  her  spell,  the  "broad-fronted  Caesar"  and 
"  great  Porapey  "  were  wrapped  in  the  coils  of  this  "  serpent  of 
old  Nile."  Cleopatra  says  (A.  I.  Sc.  v.  29-34),  —  and  she  doesn't 
increase  our  admiration  of  her  by  saying  it  of  herself  : 

"  Broad-fronted  Caesar, 

When  thou  wast  here  above  the  ground,  I  was 
A  morsel  for  a  monarch  :  and  great  Pompey 
Would  stand  and  make  his  eyes  grow  in  my  brow ; 
There  would  he  anchor  his  aspect  and  die 
With  looking  on  his  life." 

Now  the  point  to  be  especially  noted  is,  that  Cleopatra's  fasci- 
nation is,  in  the  passages  quoted,  described  and  spoken  of,  rather 
than  brought  dramatically  to  our  feelings  through  what  she  herself 
says  and  does.  These  descriptions  of  her  charms  do  not  bring  us 
into  any  sympathetic  relationship  with  her  personality.  We  simply 
know  of  her  charms.  The  dramatist  does  but  little  more  than 
the  historian.  Plutarch  fells  us  of  her  fascination,  and  so  does 
Dion  Cassius.  Both  these  writers  emphasize  it  even  more  than 
Shakespeare  does.  But  they  narrate  it  as  historians.  They  ad- 
dress the  fact  to  our  minds.  But  the  drama,  if  it  be  within  its 
purpose,  should  bring  it,  as  far  as  possible,  to  our  aesthetic  appre- 
ciation, rather  than  simply  acquaint  us  with  the  fact.  But  it  does 
not  do  so.  In  some,  indeed  in  all  the  scenes  in  which  Cleopatra 
appears,  she  is  not  a  very  fascinating  creature.  Her  treatment  of 
the  messenger  who  brings  her  the  news  of  Antony's  marriage  to 
Octavia  does  not  present  her  in  a  very  attractive  light ;  rather,  in 
a  very  repulsive  one  (A.  II.  Sc.  v.).  In  her  rage  she  is  simply 
irrational.  She  beats  the  innocent  messenger,  hales  him  up  and 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  2/1 

down,  and  even  prepares  to  kill  him.  She  is  almost  divorced 
from  the  moral  constitution  of  things.  Her  will  is  the  wind's 
will.  Her  fascination,  as  represented  by  Shakespeare,  is  almost 
wholly  a  sexual  one,  exerted  upon  those  who  are  in  her  bodily 
presence.  But  Plutarch  attributes  to  her  a  moral  fascination  (I 
use  the  word  "moral"  as  opposed  to  "physical  ")  which  is  not, 
dramatically,  at  least,  presented  in  the  play :  "  Now  her  beauty 
(as  it  is  reported)  was  not  so  passing  as  [to  be]  unmatchable  of 
other  women,  nor  yet  such  as  upon  present  view  did  enamour 
men  with  her :  but  so  sweet  was  her  company  and  conversation, 
that  a  man  could  not  possibly  but  be  taken.  And  besides  her 
beauty,  the  good  grace  she  had  to  talk  and  discourse,  her  courteous 
nature  that  tempered  her  words  and  deeds,  was  a  spur  that 
pricked  to  the  quick.  Furthermore,  besides  all  these,  her  voice 
and  words  were  marvellous  pleasant :  for  her  tongue  was  an 
instrument  of  music  to  divers  sports  and  pastimes,  the  which  she 
easily  turned  into  any  language  that  pleased  her." 

Skottowe,  in  his  "  Life  of  Shakespeare ;  Enquiries  into  the  Origi- 
nality of  his  Dramatic  Plots  and  Characters  "  ;  etc.,  remarks  (Vol. 
II.  p.  240)  :  "  Shakespeare  has  not  been  successful  in  conveying 
an  idea  of  the  elegance  of  Cleopatra's  mind.  Neither  her  man- 
ners, thoughts,  nor  language  impress  us  with  a  conviction  of  her 
possessing  those  accomplishments  which  he  ascribes  to  her.  Mark 
the  model  which  Shakespeare  had  before  him."  Skottowe  then 
gives  the  passage  quoted  above  from  Plutarch.  To  say  that 
"  Shakespeare  has  not  been  successful  in  conveying,"  etc.,  is  not 
the  way  to  put  it.  He  could  have  been  "  successful,"  if  he  had 
seen  fit  to  be.  It  should  rather  be  said  that  his  art  purpose  did 
not  demand  that;  it  rather  demanded  that  the  "elegance  of 
Cleopatra's  mind  "  (supposing  that  an  elegance  of  mind  could  be 
attributed  to  her)  should  not  be  brought  to  our  aesthetic  apprecia- 
tion as,  to  use  Plutarch's  expressions,  "a  spur  that  pricked  to  the 
quick."  The  moral  spirit  with  which  the  artist  worked  did  not 
allow  of  it.  This  is  one  of  the  most  important  things  to  be  noted 
in  the  play.  Mrs.  Jameson  says  (and  Verplanck  endorses  her 


2/2  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

words  by  saying  that  "  there  are  few  readers  who  do  not  feel  with 
her"),  that  "Shakespeare's  Cleopatra  produces  exactly  the  same 
effect  on  us  that  is  recorded  of  the  real  Cleopatra.  She  dazzles 
our  faculties,  perplexes  our  judgments,  bewilders  and  bewitches 
our  fancy ;  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  drama,  we  are 
conscious  of  a  kind  of  fascination  against  which  our  moral  sense 
rebels,  but  from  which  there  is  no  escape."  The  poet  Campbell 
more  truly  says,  and  with  more  justice  to  Shakespeare's  dramatic 
art,  that,  "playfully  interesting  to  our  fancy  as  he  makes  this 
enchantress,  he  keeps  us  far  from  a  vicious  sympathy.  The  asp 
at  her  bosom,  that  lulls  its  nurse  asleep,  has  no  poison  for  our 
morality.  A  single  glance  at  the  devoted  and  dignified  Octavia 
recalls  our  homage  to  virtue  ;  but  with  delicate  skill  he  withholds 
the  purer  woman  from  prominent  contact  with  the  wanton  queen, 
and  does  not,  like  Dryden,  bring  the  two  to  a  scolding  match." 

Judging  from  the  low  estimate  of  woman,  exhibited  in  the  works 
of  Dryden,  he  could  not  have  had  any  appreciation  of  Shakespeare's 
Octavia.  In  the  Preface  to  his  "All  for  Love;  or,  The  World 
well  lost,"  he  says  :  "They  [the  French  poets]  would  not  have 
suffered  Cleopatra  and  Octavia  to  have  met ;  or,  if  they  had  met, 
there  must  have  only  passed  betwixt  them  some  cold  civilities,  but 
no  eagerness  of  repartee,  for  fear  of  offending  against  the  greatness 
of  their  characters  and  the  modesty  of  their  sex.  This  objection 
I  foresaw,  and  at  the  same  time  contemned ;  for  I  judged  it  both 
natural  and  probable,  that  Octavia,  protid  of  her  new-gained  con- 
quest, would  search  out  Cleopatra  to  triumph  over  her  ;  [!]  and  that 
Cleopatra,  thus  attacked,  was  not  of  a  spirit  to  shun  the  encounter  : 
and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  two  exasperated  rivals  should  use  such 
satire  as  I  have  put  into  their  mouths  ;  for,  after  all,  though  the  one 
was  a  Roman,  and  the  other  a  queen,  they  were  both  women  !  " 

Comment  on  such  bosh  is  quite  unnecessary. 

When  we  read  The  Winter's  Tale,  we  understand  perfectly  why 
Hermione  has  such  a  hold  upon  all  about  her.  She  sheds  a  fra- 
grance through  the  whole  Play.  And  the  same  may  be  said  of 
Imogen  in  Cymbeline,  of  Isabella  in  Measure  for  Measure,  and 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  2/3 

of  others  of  Shakespeare's  women.  We  understand  the  power 
which  these  women  are  represented  as  exerting,  because  the  poet 
has  brought  it,  through  his  dramatic  art,  to  our  aesthetic  apprecia- 
tion. But  he  has  rather  aimed  to  shut  off  Cleopatra's  power  from 
any  such  appreciation.  The  moral  spirit  with  which  he  always 
worked,  determined  him  in  this.  Perhaps  no  one  of  his  Plays 
exhibits  this  moral  spirit  more  distinctly  than  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra. There  is  one  Shakespearian  critic,  however,  who  appears 
to  have  come  under  the  fascination  of  the  Cleopatra  of  the  Play 
more  completely  than  did  Marc  Antony  under  that  of  the  living 
Cleopatra,  namely,  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.  In  his  "A 
Study  of  Shakespeare,"  pp.  188-191,  he  says  : 

"  It  would  seem  a  sign  or  birthmark  of  only  the  greatest  among 
poets  that  they  should  be  sure  to  rise  instantly  for  awhile  above 
the  very  highest  of  their  native  height  at  the  touch  of  a  thought 
of  Cleopatra.  So  was  it,  as  we  all  know,  with  William  Shake- 
speare :  so  is  it,  as  we  all  see,  with  Victor  Hugo.  As  we  feel  in 
the  marvellous  and  matchless  verses  of  Zim-Zizimi  all  the  splen- 
dour and  fragrance  and  miracle  of  her  mere  bodily  presence,  so 
from  her  first  imperial  dawn  on  the  Stage  of  Shakespeare  to  the 
setting  of  that  eastern  star  behind  a  pall  of  undissolving  cloud  we 
feel  the  charm  and  the  terror  and  the  mystery  of  her  absolute  and 
royal  soul.  .  .  . 

"  Never  has  he  given  such  proof  of  his  incomparable  instinct  for 
abstinence  from  the  wrong  thing  as  well  as  achievement  of  the 
right.*  He  has  utterly  rejected  and  disdained  all  occasion  of 
setting  her  off  by  means  of  any  lesser  foil  than  all  the  glory  of  the 
world  with  all  its  empires.  And  we  need  not  Antony's  example 
to  show  us  that  these  are  less  than  straws  in  the  balance. 

"  «  Entre  elle  et  Tunivers  qui  s'offraient  k  la  fois 
II  hdsita,  lachant  le  monde  dans  son  choix.' 


*This  is  quite  true,  but  not  in  the  sense  in  which  Mr.  Swinburne  would 
have  it  taken. 


2/4  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

"  Even  as  that  Roman  grasp  relaxed  and  let  fall  the  world,  so  has 
Shakespeare's  self  let  go  for  awhile  his  greater  world  of  imagina- 
tion, with  all  its  all  but  infinite  variety  of  life  and  thought  and 
action,  for  love  of  that  more  infinite  variety  which  custom  could 
not  stale.  Himself  a  second  and  a  yet  more  fortunate  Antony,  he 
has  once  more  laid  a  world,  and  a  world  more  wonderful  than 
ever,  at  her  feet.  He  has  put  aside  for  her  sake  all  other  forms 
and  figures  of  womanhood ;  he,  father  or  creator  of  Rosalind,  of 
Cordelia,  of  Desdemona,  and  of  Imogen,  he  too,  like  the  sun- 
god  and  sender  of  all  song,  has  anchored  his  eyes  on  her  whom 
'  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches '  could  not  leave  '  black '  nor  '  wrinkled 
deep  in  time ' ;  on  that  incarnate  and  imperishable  ( spirit  of 
sense,'  to  whom  at  the  very  last 

"  «  The  stroke  of  death  is  as  a  lover's  pinch, 
That  hurts,  and  is  desired.' 

To  him,  as  to  the  dying  husband  of  Octavia,  this  creature  of  his 
own  hand  might  have  boasted  herself  that  the  loveliest  and  purest 
among  all  her  sisters  of  his  begetting, 

'  With  her  modest  eyes 
And  still  conclusion,  shall  acquire  no  honour, 
Demurring  upon  me.' 

To  sum  up,  Shakespeare  has  elsewhere  given  us  in  ideal  incarna- 
tion the  perfect  mother,  the  perfect  wife,  the  perfect  daughter, 
the  perfect  mistress,  or  the  perfect  maiden :  here  only  once  for 
all  he  has  given  us  the  perfect  and  the  everlasting  woman." 

In  what  sense  Mr.  Swinburne  uses  the  word  "  perfect,"  it  would 
be  hard  to  decide.  Verily,  nothing  more  crazy  has  ever  been  said 
in  Shakespearian  criticism. 

If  such  rapture  had  a  real  basis  —  if  Cleopatra,  as  dramatically 
presented,  were  to  impress  readers  generally  as  she  appears  to 
have  impressed  the  poet-critic,  the  moral  spirit  of  the  Play  would 
be  far  below  the  Shakespearian  standard.  Shakespeare's  art,  exer- 
cised, as  it  evidently  was,  to  shut  Cleopatra  off  from  our  sym- 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  2/5 

pathies,  has  not  been  successful  in  Mr.  Swinburne's  case.  But  the 
great  artist  could  not  have  anticipated,  with  all  his  knowledge  of 
human  possibilities,  any  such  susceptibility  to  female  charms  as 
he  exhibits. 

Antony  must,  by  his  very  constitution,  be  subordinate  to  Octa- 
vius  —  though  the  range  of  his  nature  is  far  greater  than  that  of 
Octavius,  which  is  comparatively  limited ;  but  its  limitations  are 
compensated  for  (so  far,  at  least,  as  his  civic  abilities  are  con- 
cerned) by  definiteness  and  positiveness.  And  he  always  knows 
"  when  to  take  occasion  by  the  hand."  The  potentially  great 
elements  of  Antony's  nature  are  not  organized  into  any  practical 
effectiveness,  and  the  strong  sensual  set  of  his  nature  induces  a 
more  and  more  chaotic  condition  of  his  powers.  And,  thus,  it 
may  be  said,  that  his  genius  is  rebuked  by  that  of  Octavius. 
There's  a  special  dramatic  exhibition  of  this  in  the  2d  Scene  of 
the  2d  Act  of  the  Play,  and  it  is  set  forth  by  the  Soothsayer  in 
the  3d  Scene  of  the  2d  Act. 

Octavius  says  to  Antony  (A.  II.  Sc.  ii.  71)  : 

' '  I  wrote  to  you 

When  rioting  in  Alexandria :  you 
Did  pocket  up  my  letter,  and  with  taunts 
Did  give  my  missive  *  out  of  audience. 

Ant.  Sir, 

He  fell  upon  me  ere  admitted  :  then 
Three  kings  I  had  newly  feasted,  and  did  want 
Of  what  I  was  i'  the  morning : " 

Here  Antony  admits  his  weakness. 

"  But  next  day 
I  told  him  of  myself;  " 

i.e.,  that  he  was  under  the  influence  of  wine  the  day  before. 

"  Which  was  as  much 
As  to  have  ask'd  him  pardon.  .  .  . 

CCES.  You  have  broken 

The  article  of  your  oath,  which  you  shall  never 
Have  tongue  to  charge  me  with." 

*  messenger. 


2/6  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

Here  Octavius  speaks  with  warmth,  and  the  would-be  peace- 
maker, Lepidus,  interposes : 

"  Soft,  Caesar. 

Ant.  No, 

Lepidus,  let  him  speak : 
The  honour  is  sacred  which  he  talks  on  now, 
Supposing  that  I  lack'd  it.     But  on,  Caesar ; 
The  article  of  my  oath. 

Cess.   To  lend  me  arms  and  aid  when  I  required  them ; 
The  which  you  both  denied. 

Ant.  Neglected,  rather ; 

And  then  when  poison'd  hours  had  bound  me  up 
From  mine  own  knowledge." 

Another  admission  of  his  bad  habits,  which  weakens  his  position. 

' '  As  nearly  as  I  may, 

I'll  play  the  penitent  to  you :  but  mine  honesty 
Shall  not  make  poor  my  greatness,  nor  my  power 
Work  without  it.*     Truth  is  that  Fulvia, 
To  have  me  out  of  Egypt,  made  wars  here ; 
For  which  myself,  the  ignorant  motive,  do 
So  far  ask  pardon  as  befits  mine  honour 
To  stoop  in  such  a  case." 

Here  Antony's  real  sense  of  his  inferiority  to  his  young  colleague 
is  brought  distinctly  out,  by  an  affectation  of  a  sense  of  honor. 

"  Lep.  'Tis  noble  spoken. 

Mec.   If  it  might  please  you  to  enforce  no  further 
The  griefs  between  ye  :  f  to  forget  them  quite 
Were  to  remember  that  the  present  need 
Speaks  to  atone  f  you. 

Lep.   Worthily  spoken,  Mecaenas." 

These  little  interposed  speeches  of  Lepidus  very  happily  reveal 
the  weak  triumvir,  who  feels  that  it's  best  for  himself  that  things 
be  kept  quiet. 


*  i.e.,  without  mine  honesty. 

f  emphasize  no  further  the  grievances  between  you. 

|  bring  you  at  one,  reconcile  you. 


ANTOtfY  AMD   CLEOPATRA. 

"  Eno.  Or,  if  you  borrow  one  another's  love  for  the  instant,  you 
may,  when  you  hear  no  more  words  of  Pompey,  return  it  again :  you 
shall  have  time  to  wrangle  in  when  you  have  nothing  else  to  do. 

Ant.   Thou  art  a  soldier  only ;  speak  no  more. 

Eno.   That  truth  should  be  silent  I  had  almost  forgot 

Ant.   You  wrong  this  presence ;  therefore  speak  no  more. 

Eno.   Go  to,  then ;  your  considerate  stone." 

A  very  pregnant  expression  :  I  shall  be  as  silent  as  a  stone,  and 
have  the  honour  to  assure  you  of  my  high  consideration. 

"  Cas.   I  do  not  much  dislike  the  matter,  but 
The  manner  of  his  speech  ;  for't  cannot  be 
We  shall  remain  in  friendship,  our  conditions  * 
So  differing  in  their  acts.     Yet,  if  I  knew 
What  hoop  should  hold  us  stanch,  from  edge  to  edge 
O'  the  world  f  I  would  pursue  it." 

It  must  evidently  be  understood  by  the  last  speech,  that  a 
"  hoop,"  and  a  very  politic  one,  has  been  already  decided  upon 
by  Octavius  and  his  crafty  counsellor,  Agrippa.  What  follows 
shows  this ;  and  affords  a  special  illustration,  too,  of  Antony's 
genius  rebuked  by  Octavius's : 

"  Agr.  Give  me  leave,  Caesar. 

Cas.   Speak,  Agrippa. 

Agr.  Thou  hast  a  sister  by  the  mother's  side, 
Admired  Octavia :  great  Mark  Antony 
Is  now  a  widower. ' 

Cas.   Say  not  so,  Agrippa : 
If  Cleopatra  heard  you,  your  reproof 
Were  well  deserved  of  rashness." 

This  speech  seems  meant  to  convey  the  impression  that  the 
proposal  of  marriage  between  Antony  and  Octavia,  intimated  in 
the  last  speech  of  Agrippa,  was  something  new  to  Octavius.  But 
he  evidently  knows  just  what's  coming  from  Agrippa. 

*  temperaments,  dispositions. 

t  from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other. 


2/8  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

"•Ant.   I   am  not  married,   Caesar:    let  me  hear  Agrippa  further 
speak. 

Agr.    To  hold  you  in  perpetual  amity, 
To  make  you  brothers,  and  to  knit  your  hearts 
With  an  unslipping  knot,  take  Antony 
Octavia  to  his  wife ;  whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men ; 
Whose  virtue  and  whose  general  graces  speak 
That  which  none  else  can  utter.     By  this  marriage, 
All  little  jealousies,  which  now  seem  great, 
And  all  great  fears,  which  now  import  *  their  dangers, 
Would  then  be  nothing :  truths  would  be  tales, 
Where  now  half  tales  be  truths :  her  love  to  both 
Would  each  to  other  and  all  loves  to  both, 
Draw  after  her.     Pardon  what  I  have  spoke ; 
For  'tis  a  studied,  not  a  present  thought, 
By  duty  ruminated. 

Ant.  Will  Caesar  speak  ? 

Cces.   Not  till  he  hear  how  Antony  is  touch'd 
With  what  is  spoke  already. 

Ant.  What  power  is  in  Agrippa, 

If  I  would  say,  *  Agrippa,  be  it  so,' 
To  make  this  good  ? 

Cc&s.  The  power  of  Caesar,  and 

His  power  unto  Octavia. 

Ant.  May  I  never 

To  this  good  purpose,  that  so  fairly  shows, 
Dream  of  impediment !  —  Let  me  have  thy  hand  ; 
Further  this  act  of  grace,  and  from  this  hour 
The  heart  of  brothers  govern  in  our  loves 
And  sway  our  great  designs  ! 

CCES.  There  is  my  hand. 

A  sister  I  bequeath  you,  whom  no  brother 
Did  ever  love  so  dearly ;  let  her  live 
To  join  our  kingdoms  and  our  hearts,  and  never 
Fly  off  our  loves  again ! 

Lep.   Happily,  amen! 


carry  with  them. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  279 

Ant.    I  did  not  think  to  draw  my  sword  'gainst  Pompey ; 
For  he  hath  laid  strange  courtesies  and  great 
Of  late  upon  me :  I  must  thank  him  only, 
Lest  my  remembrance  suffer  ill  report ; 
At  heel  of  that,  defy  him. 

Lep.  Time  calls  upon's : 

Of  us  must  Pompey  presently  be  sought 
Or  else  he  seeks  out  us. 

Ant.  Where  lies  he? 

Cces.   About  the  mount  Misenum. 

Ant.  What  is  his  strength  by  land  ? 

Cces.   Great  and  increasing  :  but  by  sea 
He  is  an  absolute  master. 

Ant.   So  is  the  fame. 

Would  we  had  spoke  together !     Haste  we  for  it : 
Yet,  ere  we  put  ourselves  in  arms,  dispatch  we 
The  business  we  have  talk'd  of. 

Cces.   With  most  gladness : 
And  do  invite  you  to  my  sister's  view, 
Whither  straight  I'll  lead  you. 

Ant.  Let  us,  Lepidus, 

Not  lack  your  company. 

Lep.  Noble  Antony, 

Not  sickness  should  detain  me. 

What  a  mere  cipher  poor  Lepidus  is  !  To  adopt  a  couplet  from 
Churchill's  "  Gotham,"  he  "  attends  at  councils  which  he  must  not 
weigh,  does  what  they  bid,  and  what  they  dictate,  say." 

In  the  next  scene,  the  subordination  of  the  Genius  of  Antony 
to  that  of  Octavius,  is  set  forth  by  the  Soothsayer.  This  Shake- 
speare took  from  Plutarch  and  made  the  best  use  of.  Plutarch 
says :  "  With  Antonius  there  was  a  soothsayer  or  astronomer  of 
Egypt,  that  could  cast  a  figure,  and  judge  of  men's  nativities,  to 
tell  them  what  should  happen  to  them.  He,  either  to  please  Cleo- 
patra, or  else  for  that  he  found  it  so  by  his  art,  told  Antonius 
plainly  that  his  fortune  (which  of  itself  was  excellent  good,  and 
very  great)  was  altogether  blemished  and  obscured  by  Caesar's  for- 
tune :  and  therefore  he  counselled  him  utterly  to  leave  his  com- 


280  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

pahy,  and  to  get  him  as  far  from  him  as  he  could.  '  For  thy 
demon,'  said  he  (that  is  to  say,  the  good  angel  and  spirit  that 
keepeth  thee) ,  '  is  afraid  of  his  :  and  being  courageous  and  high 
when  he  is  alone,  becometh  fearful  and  timorous  when  he  cometh 
near  unto  the  other.'  Howsoever  it  was,  the  events  ensuing  proved 
the  Egyptian's  words  true  :  for  it  is  said,  that  as  often  as  they  two 
drew  cuts  for  pastime,  who  should  have  anything,  or  whether  they 
played  at  dice,  Antonius  always  lost.  Oftentimes  when  they  were 
disposed  to  see  cock-fight,  or  quails  that  were  taught  to  fight  one 
with  another,  Caesar's  cocks  or  quails  did  ever  overcome." 
In  the  Play  we  have,  A.  II.  Sc.  in.,  beginning  at  loth  line : 

Ant.   Now !  sirrah  ;  you  do  wish  yourself  in  Egypt  ? 

Sooth.   Would  I  had  never  come  from  thence,  nor  you 
Thither! 

Ant.       If  you  can,  your  reason? 

Sooth.  I  see  it  in 

My  motion,*  have  it  not  in  my  tongue :  but  yet 
Hie  you  to  Egypt  again. 

Ant.  Say  to  me, 

Whose  fortunes  shall  rise  higher,  Caesar's  or  mine? 

Sooth.  Caesar's. 

Therefore,  O  Antony,  stay  not  by  his  side : 
Thy  demon,  that  thy  spirit  which  keeps  thee,  is 
Noble,  courageous,  high,  unmatchable, 
Where  Caesar's  is  not ;  but,  near  him,  thy  angel 
Becomes  a  fear,  as  being  o'erpower'd :  f  therefore 
Make  space  enough  between  you. 

Ant.  Speak  this  no  more. 

Sooth.  To  none  but  thee ;  no  more,  but  when  to  thee. 
If  thou  dost  play  with  him  at  any  game, 


*  in  the  movement  of  my  soul,  intuitively, 
t  Macbeth  says  of  Banquo : 

"  There's  none  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear;  and  under  him 
My  Genius  is  rebuk'd,  as  it  is  said 
Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar." 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  28 1 

Thou  art  sure  to  lose ;  and,  of  that  natural  luck, 
He  beats  thee  'gainst  the  odds :  thy  lustre  thickens* 
When  he  shines  by :  I  say  again,  thy  spirit 
Is  all  afraid  to  govern  thee  near  him ; 
But,  he  away,  'tis  noble. 

Ant.  Get  thee  gone ; 

Say  to  Ventidius  I  would  speak  with  him :      {Exit  Soothsayer. 
He  shall  to  Parthia.     Be  it  art  or  hap, 
He  hath  spoken  true  :  the  very  dice  obey  him ; 
And  in  our  sports  my  better  cunning  f  faints 
Under  his  chance  :  if  we  draw  lots,  he  speeds ;  \ 
His  cocks  do  win  the  battle  still  of  mine, 
When  it  is  all  to  nought ;  §  and  his  quails  ever 
Beat  mine,  inhoop'd,||  at  odds.     I  will  to  Egypt: 
And  though  I  make  this  marriage  for  my  peace, 
I'  the  east  my  pleasure  lies." 

Antony  and  Octavius  have  done  what  the  keen-sighted  Eno- 
barbus  foresaw  they  would  do,  and  therefore  proposed  the  same 
(A.  II.  Sc.  ii.),  namely,  "  borrowed  one  another's  love  for  the 
instant,"  in  order  the  better  to  dispose  of  the  troublesome  Sextus 
Pompeius.  The  reconciliation  of  the  two  triumvirs  (the  flimsiness 
and  purely  politic  character  of  which  Pompey  doesn't  appear  to 
suspect),  and  the  military  operations  which  are  on  foot,  against 
him,  dispose  him  to  accept  the  offer  made  him  by  the  triumvirate, 
and  the  conditions  involved  therein.  His  attitude  as  the  son  of 
Cneius  Pompeius  Magnus,  and  as  the  feeble  representative,  or 
relic,  of  the  old  republican  constitution,  and  his  evanescent  rela- . 
tion  to  the  historical  movement  of  the  play,  are  exhibited  in  the 
6th  Scene  of  the  2d  Act.  Though  regarding  himself  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  old  republican  constitution,  he  inconsistently  agrees 
with  the  triumvirate  to  accept  a  slice  of  the  Roman  world : 


*  thy  brightness  grows  dim;   "light  thickens,  and  the  crow  makes  wing  to 
the  rooky  wood."  —  Macbeth,  A.  III.  Sc.  ii.  50. 

t  skill.  \  has  success. 

§  "  When  the  odds  are  as  everything  to  nothing." 

||  "Confined  within  a  circle  to  keep  them  '  up  to  the  scratch.' " 


282  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

11  Pom.   Your  hostages  I  have,  so  have  you  mine ; 
And  we  shall  talk  before  we  fight. 

Cess.  Most  meet 

That  first  we  come  to  words  ;  and  therefore  have  we 
Our  written  purposes  before  us  sent ; 
Which,  if  thou  hast  considered,  let  us  know 
If  'twill  tie  up  thy  discontented  sword, 
And  carry  back  to  Sicily  much  tall  youth 
That  else  must  perish  here. 

Pom.  To  you  all  three, 

The  senators  alone  of  this  great  world, 
Chief  factors  *  for  the  gods,  I  do  not  know 
Wherefore  my  father  should  revengers  want, 
Having  a  son  and  friends  ;  since  Julius  Caesar, 
Who  at  Philippi  the  good  Brutus  ghosted,f 
There  saw  you  labouring  for  him.     What  was't 
That  moved  pale  J  Cassius  to  conspire  ;  and  what 
Made  the  all-honour'd,  honest  Roman,  Brutus, 
With  the  arm'd  rest,  courtiers  of  beauteous  freedom, 
To  drench  the  Capitol ;  but  that  they  would 
Have  one  man  but  a  man?  §     And  that  is  it 
Hath  made  me  rig  my  navy ;  at  whose  burthen 
The  anger'd  ocean  foams  ;  with  which  I  meant 
To  scourge  the  ingratitude  that  despiteful  Rome 
Cast  on  my  noble  father. 


*  agents.  t  appeared  to,  as  a  ghost. 

|  "  Cess.     Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat : 
Sleek-headed  men  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights : 
Yond  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look; 
He  thinks  too  much :  such  men  are  dangerous." 

—  Julius  Caesar,  A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  191-194. 
§  "  Cces.   When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood, 

But  it  was  famed  with  more  than  with  one  man? 
When  could  they  say  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walls  encompass'd  but  one  man? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man." 

—  Julius  Csesar,  A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  143-148. 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  283 

Cces.  Take  your  time. 

Ant.   Thou  canst  not  fear  *  us,  Pompey,  with  thy  sails ;  f 
We'll  speak  with  thee  at  sea :  at  land,  thou  know'st 
How  much  we  do  o'er-count  thee. 

Pom.  At  land,  indeed, 

Thou  dost  o'er-count  me  of  my  father's  house 4 
But,  since  the  cuckoo  builds  not  for  himself,  § 
Remain  in't  as  thou  mayst. 

Lep.  Be  pleased  to  tell  us  — 

For  this  is  from  the  present  ||  —  how  you  take 
The  offers  we  have  sent  you. 

CCES.  There's  the  point. 

Ant.  Which  do  not  be  entreated  to,  but  weigh 
What  it  is  worth  embraced. 

CCES.  And  what  may  follow, 

To  try  ^T  a  larger  fortune. 

Pom.  You  have  made  me  offer 

Of  Sicily,  Sardinia ;  and  I  must 
Rid  all  the  sea  of  pirates  ;  then,  to  send 
Measures  of  wheat  to  Rome  ;  this  greed  upon, 
To  part  with  unhack'd  edges,  and  bear  back 
Our  targes  undinted. 

Cces.  Ant.  Lep.  That's  our  offer. 


*  affright.  f  ships,  navy. 

J  "  At  land  indeed  thou  dost  exceed  me  in  possessions,  having  added  to 
thy  own  my  father's  house.  O'er-count  seems  to  be  used  equivocally,  and 
Pompey  perhaps  meant  to  insinuate  that  Antony  not  only  outnumbered^  but 
had  over-reached  h\m."  Plutarch  says:  "When  Pompey's  house  was  put  to 
open  sale,  Antonius  bought  it;  but  when  they  asked  him  money  for  it,  he 
made  it  very  strange  and  was  offended  with  them."  Again :  "  Whereupon 
Antonius  asked  him  [Sextus  Pompeius], '  And  where  shall  we  sup? '  'There,' 
said  Pompey;  and  showed  him  his  admiral  galley,  which  had  six  benches  of 
oars:  'That,'  said  he,  'is  my  father's  house  they  have  left  me.'  He  spake  it 
to  taunt  Antonius,  because  he  had  his  father's  house,  that  was  Pompey  the 
Great."  —  Malone. 

§  "  Since,  like  the  cuckoo,  that  seizes  the  nests  of  other  birds,  you  have 
invaded  a  house  which  you  could  not  build,  keep  it  while  you  can/'  —  Johnson. 

||  apart  from  the  present  business. 

^[  And  what  bad  consequences  may  follow  in  trying  for  a  larger  fortune. 


284 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


Pom.  Know,  then, 

I  came  before  you  here  a  man  prepared 
To  make  this  offer :  but  Mark  Antony 
Put  me  to  some  impatience :  though  I  lose 
The  praise  of  it  by  telling,  you  must  know, 
When  Caesar  and  your  brother  were  at  blows, 
Your  mother  came  to  Sicily  and  did  find 
Her  welcome  friendly. 

Ant.  I  have  heard  it,  Pompey ; 

And  am  well  studied  for  a  liberal  thanks  * 
Which  I  do  owe  you. 

Pom.  Let  me  have  your  hand : 

I  did  not  think,  sir,  to  have  met  you  here. 

Ant.   The  beds  i1  the  east  are  soft ;  and  thanks  to  you, 
That  call'd  me  timelier  than  my  purpose  hither ; 
For  I  have  gain'd  by't. 

CCBS.  Since  I  saw  you  last, 

There  is  a  change  upon  you. 

Pom.  Well,  I  know  not 

What  counts  harsh  fortune  casts  upon  my  face ;  f 
But  in  my  bosom  shall  she  never  come, 
To  make  my  heart  her  vassal. 

Lep.  Well  met  here. 

Pom.   I  hope  so,  Lepidus.     Thus  we  are  agreed : 
I  crave  our  composition  \  may  be  written, 


And  seaPd  between  us. 
CCBS. 


That's  the  next  to  do. 


Pom.   We'll  feast  each  other  ere  we  part ;  anc 

Draw  lots  who  shall  begin. 
Ant.  That  will  I,  Pompe) 

Pom.   No,  Antony,  take  the  lot :  §  but,  first 

Or  last,  your  fine  Egyptian  cookery 

Shall  have  the  fame.     I  have  heard  that  Julius  C 

Grew  fat  with  feasting  there. 


a  "  used  with  reference  to  "  thanks  "  as  an  abbreviate*   expression. 


f  "Metaphor  from  making  marks  or  lines  in  casting 
burton. 

§  By  metonomy  for  result  of  lot. 


et's 


Esar 


ccounts."  —  War- 
\  agreement, 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  285 

Ant.  You  have  heard  much.* 

Pom.    I  have  fair  meanings,  sir,  .  .  . 
Aboard  my  galley  I  invite  you  all : 
Will  you  lead,  lords? 

CCBS.  Ant.  Lep.         Show  us  the  way,  sir. 

Pom.  Come." 

Throughout  this  scene,  Shakespeare  follows  his  original  in  its 
minutest  details.  But  of  Pompey's  entertainment  on  board  his 
admiral  galley,  which  is  made  by  Shakespeare  so  dramatically 
important  a  scene  in  the  Play,  Plutarch  simply  says,  "  and  there  " 
(meaning  on  his  galley)  "he  welcomed  them  and  made  them 
great  cheer."  But  Shakespeare,  knowing  that  wine  reveals  as  well 
as  disguises,  that  " in  vino  est  veritas"  made  this  banquet  the 
means  of  characterizing  and  contrasting  the  triumvirs,  and  the 
poor  relic  of  republican  Rome,  Sextus  Pompeius.  This  scene 
exhibits  that  Shakespearian  irony  which  plays  so  freely  with  all 
things,  regardless  of  all  conventional  ideas  of  high  and  low,  great 
and  small. 

What  an  affliction  this  scene,  if  he  ever  read  it,  must  have 
been  to  Thomas  Rymer,  the  author  of  "  A  Short  View  of  Tragedy ; 
it's  Original  Excellency  and  Corruption.  With  some  Reflections 
on  Shakespear,  and  other  Practitioners  for  the  Stage.  1693  "  !  He 
must  have  gone  into  a  rage  about  the  indignity  with  which  Shake- 
speare treats  the  masters  of  the  world,  as  if  they  were  not  different 
from  common  mortals.  (See  his  criticisms  of  Othello  and  Julius 
Caesar  in  his  "Short  View.")  One  great  and  common  merit  of 
all  Shakespeare's  characters,  both  men  and  women,  is,  that  his  men 
are  men,  and  his  women  are  women,  before  they  are  anything  else 
—  before  they  are  kings  or  queens,  princes  or  princesses,  lords  or 
ladies.  They  are  not  mounted  on  the  stilts  of  rank,  but  tread  the 
common  mother  earth.  "  One  of  the  most  formidable  adversaries 
of  true  poetry,"  says  Godwin,  f  "  is  an  attribute  which  is  generally 


*  There  is  implied  in  "  much,"  that  Antony  thinks  he  has  heard  also  of  his 
excesses.  Pompey,  recognizing  what  is  implied,  says,  "  I  have  fair  meanings, 
sir."  t  "  Life  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer,"  1803,  Vol.  I.  p.  324. 


286  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

miscalled  dignity.  Shakespeare  possessed,  no  man  in  higher  per- 
fection, the  true  dignity  and  loftiness  of  the  poetical  afflatus,  which 
he  has  displayed  in  many  of  the  finest  passages  of  his  works  with 
miraculous  success.  But  he  knew  that  no  man  ever  was,  or  ever 
can  be,  always  dignified.  He  knew  that  those  subtler  traits  of 
character  which  identify  a  man,  are  familiar  and  relaxed,  pervaded 
with  passion,  and  not  played  off  with  an  eternal  eye  to  decorum." 

"  SCENE  VII.     On  board  Pomp ey*s  galley,  off  Misenum. 
Music  plays.    Enter  two  or  three  Servants  with  a  banquet  * 

First  Serv.  Here  they'll  be,  man.  Some  o'  their  plants  are  ill-rooted 
already ;  f  the  least  wind  i1  the  world  will  blow  them  down. 

Sec.  Serv.   Lepidus  is  high-coloured. 

First  Serv.   They  have  made  him  drink  almsdrink.J 

Sec.  Serv.  As  they  pinch  one  another  by  the  disposition,§  he  cries 
out  "No  more;"  reconciles  them  to  his  entreaty, j|  and  himself  to  the 
drink. 

First  Serv.  But  it  raises  the  greater  war  between  him  and  his  dis- 
cretion. 

Sec.  Serv.  Why,  this  it  is  to  have  a  name  in  great  men's  fellow- 
ship :  I  had  as  lief  have  a  reed  that  will  do  me  no  service  as  a  partisan 
I  could  not  heave. 

First  Serv.  To  be  called  into  a  huge  sphere,  and  not  to  be  seen  to 
move  in't,  are  the  holes  where  eyes  should  be,  which  pitifully  disaster 
the  cheeks." 


*  dessert. 

t  A  play  on  tke  words  "  plants  "  and  "ill-rooted";  they  are  unsteady  on 
their  feet,  from  drinking. 

\  According  to  Warburton,  "  a  phrase,  amongst  good  fellows,  to  signify  that 
liquor  of  another's  share  which  his  companion  drinks  to  ease  him";  but  per- 
haps it  rather  means,  as  Schmidt  explains,  "  the  leavings."  Warburton  adds, 
"  It  satirically  alludes  to  Caesar  and  Antony's  admitting  him  into  the  trium- 
virate, in  order  to  take  off  from  themselves  the  load  of  envy."  But  that's 
attributing  too  deep  a  meaning  to  the  servant's  speech. 

§  "  try  each  other  by  banter." 

||  he  is  still  disposed  to  be  the  peace-maker,  even  when  drunk. 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  28? 

The  last  two  speeches  characterize  well  the  position  of  Lepidus 
in  the  triumvirate,  but  they  seem  too  wise  for  the  servants  to  utter. 

"A  sennet  sounded.     Enter  CESAR,  ANTONY,   LEPIDUS,   POMPEY, 
AGRIPPA,  MECLENAS,  ENOBARBUS,  MENAS,  with  other  captains. 

Ant.    [To  Ccesar^  Thus  do  they,  sir :  they  take  the  flow  o'  the  Nile 
By  certain  scales  i'  the  pyramid ;  they  know, 
By  the  height,  the  lowness,  or  the  mean,  if  dearth 
Or  foison  follow  ;  the  higher  Nilus  swells, 
The  more  it  promises  :  as  it  ebbs,  the  seedsman 
Upon  the  slime  and  ooze  scatters  his  grain, 
And  shortly  comes  to  harvest." 

There's  an  air  of  solidity  in  this  speech,  which  indicates  a  con- 
sciousness on  the  part  of  the  speaker,  that  he  has  imbibed  quite 
freely,  and  therefore  assumes  a  solid  tone  of  speech.  But  he  is  in 
pretty  good  possession  of  himself,  as  he  has  been  well  seasoned  in 
Egypt,  and  can  bear  a  great  deal.  Lepidus  breaks  in  upon  their 
talk: 

"  Lep.   YouVe  strange  serpents  there. 
Ant.   Ay,  Lepidus. 

Lep.   Your  serpent  of  Egypt  is  bred  now  of  your  mud  by  the  opera- 
tion of  your  sun  :  so  is  your  crocodile. 
Ant.   They  are  so. 

Pom.   Sit,  —  and  some  wine  !    A  health  to  Lepidus ! 
Lep.    I  am  not  so  well  as  I  should  be,  but  I'll  ne'er  out.* 
Eno.   Not  till  you  have  slept ;  I  fear  me  you'll  be  in  f  till  then." 

No  incidental  remarks  divert  Lepidus  from  the  interest  which 
has  been  awakened  in  his  mind,  in  regard  to  Egypt,  its  serpents 
and  crocodiles  and  pyramids.  He  continues  : 

"  Lep.  Nay,  certainly,  I  have  heard  the  Ptolemies'  pyramises  are  very 
goodly  things ;  without  contradiction,  I  have  heard  that." 

He  is  too  far  gone  to  get  the  d  into  "  pyramides."  Charles 
Cowden  Clarke  well  remarks  :  "  His  feeble  attempt  at  scientific 


*  back  out.  f"  in  for  it." 


288  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

inquiry,  in  the  remark  concerning  '  your  serpent  of  Egypt,'  his 
flabbily  persistent  researches  touching  'your  crocodile,'  and  his 
limp  recurrence  to  his  pet  expression,  '  strange  serpent,'  are  all 
conceived  in  the  highest  zest  of  comic  humour." 

"  Men.    [Aside  to  Pont.'}  Pompey,  a  word. 

Pom.  [Aside  to  Men.}  Say  in  mine  ear  what  is't? 

Men.  [Aside  to  Pom.'}  Forsake  thy  seat,  I  do  beseech  thee,  captain, 
And  hear  me  speak  a  word. 

Pom.  \_Aside  to  Men.'}  Forbear  me  till  anon.  This  wine  for  Lepi- 
dus!" 

But  he'll  not  be  turned  aside  from  his  interest  in  the  crocodile, 
and  inquires : 

"  Lep.  What  manner  o'  thing  is  your  crocodile  ? 

Ant.  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself;  and  it  is  as  broad  as  it  hath 
breadth :  it  is  just  so  high  as  it  is,  and  moves  with  it  own  organs :  it 
lives  by  that  which  nourisheth  it ;  and  the  elements  once  out  of  it,  it 
transmigrates. 

Lep.   What  colour  is  it  of  ? 

Ant.   Of  it  own  colour  too. 

Lep.   'Tis  a  strange  serpent. 

Ant.   'Tis  so.    And  the  tears  of  it  are  wet. 

Cess.   Will  this  description  satisfy  him? 

Ant.  With  the  health  that  Pompey  gives  him,  else  he  is  a  very 
epicure." 

What  contempt  is  shown,  in  these  speeches  of  Antony  and  Oc- 
tavius,  for  poor  Lepidus,  now  that  he  is,  through  drink,  far  below 
his  weak,  sober  self ! 

"Pom.  [Aside  to  Men.}  Go  hang,  sir,  hang!    Tell  me  of  that? 

Away! 
Do  as  I  bid  you.     Where's  this  cup  I  call'd  for? 

Men.  [Aside  to  Pom."}    If  for  the  sake  of  merit  thou  wilt  hear  me, 
Rise  from  thy  stool. 
Pom.  [Aside  to  Men.}   I  think  thou'rt  mad.     The  matter? 

[Rises,  and  walks  aside. 
Men.   I  have  ever  held  my  cap  off  to  thy  fortunes. 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 


289 


Pom.  Thou  hast  served  me  with  much  faith.  What's  else  to  say? 
Be  jolly,  lords." 

The  attentive  host  is  shown  here.  Withdrawn  from  his  guests 
by  Menas,  he  interrupts  his  speech  by  calling  to  them,  "  Be  jolly, 
lords." 

"  Ant.  These  quicksands,  Lepidus, 

Keep  off  them,  for  you  sink. 

Men.   Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  all  the  world? 

Pom.  What  say'st  thou? 

Men.   Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  the  whole  world?    That's  twice. 

Pom.   How  should  that  be? 

Men.  But  entertain  it, 

And,  though  thou  think  me  poor,  I  am  the  man 
Will  give  thee  all  the  world. 

Pom.  Hast  thou  drunk  well? 

Men.   No,  Pompey,  I  have  kept  me  from  the  cup. 
Thou  art,  if  thou  darest  be,  the  earthly  Jove  : 
Whate'er  the  ocean  pales,  or  sky  inclips, 
Is  thine,  if  thou  wilt  ha't. 

Pom.  Show  me  which  way. 

Men.   These  three  world-sharers,  these  competitors, 
Are  in  thy  vessel :  let  me  cut  the  cable ; 
And,  when  we  are  put  off,  fall  to  their  throats : 
All  there  is  thine." 

Pompey's  reply  shows  that  he  "  would  not  play  false,  and  yet 
would  wrongly  win." 

"  Pom.  Ah,  this  thou  shouldst  have  done, 

And  not  have  spoke  on't !     In  me  'tis  villainy ; 
In  thee't  had  been  good  service.     Thou  must  know, 
'Tis  not  my  profit  that  does  lead  mine  honour ; 
Mine  honour,  it.     Repent  that  e'er  thy  tongue 
Hath  so  betray'd  thine  act :  being  done  unknown, 
I  should  have  found  it  afterwards  well  done ; 
But  must  condemn  it  now.     Desist,  and  drink. 

Men.    \Aside.~\    For  this, 
I'll  never  follow  thy  pall'd  fortunes  more. 


2QO  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Who  seeks,  and  will  not  take  when  once  'tis  offer'd, 
Shall  never  find  it  more. 

Pom.  This  health  to  Lepidus  ! 

Ant.   Bear  him  ashore.     I'll  pledge  it  for  him,  Pompey. 

Eno.   Here's  to  thee,  Menas  ! 

Men.  Enobarbus,  welcome  ! 

Pom.   Fill  till  the  cup  be  hid. 

Eno.   There's  a  strong  fellow,  Menas. 

{Pointing  to  the  Attendant  who  carries  off  LEPIDUS. 

Men.  Why? 

Eno.  A'  bears  the  third  part  of  the  world,  man  ;  see'st  not? 

Men.   The  third  part,  then,  is  drunk  :  would  it  were  all, 
That  it  might  go  on  wheels  ! 

Eno.   Drink  thou  ;  increase  the  reels. 

Men.   Come. 

Pom.   This  is  not  yet  an  Alexandrian  feast. 

Ant.  It  ripens  towards  it.     Strike  the  vessels,  ho  ! 
Here  is  to  Caesar  ! 

Cess.  I  could  well  forbear1  1. 

It's  monstrous  labour,  when  I  wash  my  brain, 
And  it  grows  fouler. 

Ant.  Be  a  child  o'  the  time. 

Cess.    Possess  it,  I'll  make  answer  : 
But  I  had  rather  fast  from  all  four  days 
Than  drink  so  much  in  one." 

Significant  speeches.  Antony  is  a  child  of  the  time  in  a  much 
fuller  sense  than  he  means  —  he  is  possessed  by  it  ;  while  Octavius 
possesses  it,  is  master  of  it. 


Ha,  my  brave  emperor  !     \ToAntony. 
Shall  we  dance  now  the  Egyptian  Bacchanals, 
And  celebrate  our  drink? 

Pom.  Let's  ha't,  good  soldier. 

Ant.    Come,  let's  all  take  hands, 
Till  that  the  conquering  wine  hath  steep'd  our  sense 
In  soft  and  delicate  Lethe. 

Eno.  All  take  hands. 

Make  battery  to  our  ears  with  the  loud  music  : 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 


291 


The  while  I'll  place  you  ;  then  the  boy  shall  sing ; 
The  holding  *  every  man  shall  bear  as  loud 
As  his  strong  sides  can  volley. 

[Must'c  plays.    ENOBARBUS  places  them  hand  in  hand. 

THE  SONG. 

Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus  with  pink  eyne  ! 
In  thy  fats  our  cares  be  drown'd, 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crown'd : 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round, 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round ! 

Cas.   What  would  you  more  ?  " 

Every  speech  of  Octavius  in  this  scene  shows  that,  though  in 
the  revels,  he  is  not  of  them.  He  simply  endures  them  as  a 
necessary  evil,  for  the  time  being.  "What  would  you  more?" 
shows  that  he  has  been  a  reluctant  but  politic  attendant,  and  is 
impatient  to  have  them  over.  After  bidding  Pompey  good  night, 
he  says  to  Antony  : 

"Good  brother, 

Let  me  request  you  off:  our  graver  business 
Frowns  at  this  levity.     Gentle  lords,  let's  part : 
You  see  we  have  burnt  our  cheeks :  strong  Enobarb 
Is  weaker  than  the  wine :  and  mine  own  tongue 
Splits  what  it  speaks :  the  wild  disguise  hath  almost 
Antick'd  us  all.f    What  needs  more  words?  Good  night. 
Good  Antony,  your  hand. 

Pom.  I'll  try  you  on  the  shore. 

Ant.   And  shall,  sir :  give's  your  hand. 

Pom.  O  Antony, 

You  have  my  father's  house,  —  But,  what?  we  are  friends. 
Come,  down  into  the  boat." 

Clarke  calls  this  a  "  capital  bit  of  maudlin,  half  lingering  resent- 
ment, half  drunken  magnanimity  of  forgiveness." 


*  burden.  f  made  antics  or  buffoons  of  us  all. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

"  Eno.  Take  heed  you  fall  not. 

{Exeunt  all  but  ENOBARBUS  and  MENAS. 
Menas,  I'll  not  on  shore. 

Men.  No,  to  my  cabin. 

These  drums  !  these  trumpets,  flutes  !  what! 
Let  Neptune  hear  we  bid  a  loud  farewell 
To  these  great  fellows :  sound  and  be  hangM,  sound  out ! 

\Sound  a  flourish  with  drums. 

Eno.   Ho !  says  a\    There's  my  cap. 

Men.   Ho !  Noble  captain,  come."  [Exeunt. 

Menas  is  a  grand  old  representative  servant  of  a  time  that  has 
passed  away. 

There  is  no  other  scene  in  all  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare,  per- 
haps, which  exhibits  a  more  complete  dramatic  identification  on 
the  part  of  the  poet,  than  this  banquet  scene.  There  must  have 
been,  at  the  time  of  his  writing  it,  the  fullest  sympathetic  repro- 
duction within  himself,  of  the  several  characters. 

The  reconciliation  which  has  been  patched  up  between  the  sev- 
eral leading  actors  in  the  drama,  cannot  last  long,  as  it  is  based 
merely  on  policy,  and  is  quite  inconsistent  with  the  state  of  things, 
with  the  irresistible  drift  of  things  —  the  drift  toward  imperialism. 
Octavius  is  the  only  one  who  sees  through  this  politic  reconciliation, 
and  knows,  with  an  assurance  double  sure,  what  the  upshot  will  be. 
He  alone  represents  the  main  drift  of  things,  in  which  the  spirit 
of  Caesar  is  the  immanent  controlling  principle. 

Antony  goes  back,  as  soon  as  he  can,  to  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt, 
and  when  the  affairs  of  the  Empire  shall  reach  their  flood  tide 
(which  they  very  soon  will),  Antony,  with  all  his  moral  sinews 
severed,  will  be  helplessly  swallowed  up  in  this  flood  tide,  while 
Octavius  will  be  wafted  upon  it,  to  "  solely  sovereign  sway  and 
masterdom."  The  two  men  unite  in  illustrating  what  Brutus  says 
in  Julius  Caesar  (A.  IV.  Sc.  iii.  218-221)  : 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune." 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  293 

That  is  illustrated  by  Octavius. 

"  Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries." 

That  is  illustrated  by  Antony. 

In  the  Scene  between  Enobarbus  and  Eros,  the  5th  of  the  3d 
Act,  we  learn  what  has  been  done,  since  the  Triumvirate  was 
restored  to  a  provisional  harmony,  through  the  dexterous  manage- 
ment of  Octavius.  The  Scene  is  Athens,  where  Antony  now  is 
with  Octavia. 

"  Eno.   How  now,  friend  Eros ! 

Eros.   There's  strange  news  come,  sir. 

Eno.   What,  man? 

Eros.    Caesar  and  Lepidus  have  made  wars  upon  Pompey. 

Eno.    This  is  old:  what  is  the  success? 

Eros.  Caesar,  having  made  use  of  him  in  the  wars  'gainst  Pompey, 
presently  denied  him  rivality ;  *  would  not  let  him  partake  in  the  glory 
of  the  action :  and  not  resting  here,  accuses  him  of  letters  he  had  for- 
merly wrote  to  Pompey ;  upon  his  own  appeal, f  seizes  him :  so  the  poor 
third  is  up  \  till  death  enlarge  his  confine. 

Eno.    Then,  world,  thou  hast  a  pair  of  chaps,  no  more ; 
And  throw  between  them  all  the  food  thou  hast, 
They'll  grind  the  other.     Where's  Antony? 

Eros.   He's  walking  in  the  garden  —  thus  ;  and  spurns 
The  rush  that  lies  before  him :  cries  '  Fool  Lepidus  ! ' 
And  threats  the  throat  of  that  his  officer 
That  murdered  Pompey. 

Eno.  Our  great  navy's  rigg'd. 

Eros.    For  Italy  and  Caesar.     More,  §  Domitius  ; 
My  lord  desires  you  presently :  ||   my  news 
I  might  have  told  hereafter. 

Eno.  'Twill  be  naught : 

But  let  it  be.     Bring  me  to  Antony. 

Eros.    Come,  sir."  [Exeunt* 


*  associateship,  equality.  f  impeachment.  \  shut  up. 

§  I've  more  to  tell  you.  ||  immediately. 


294  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Enobarbus  shows  by  his  last  speech,  that  he  has  no  more  hopes 
for  Antony  —  that  in  desiring  him  immediately,  he  can  have  noth- 
ing to  devise  which  will  be  worth  anything.  Antony  makes  Octa- 
vius's  doings  since  he  left  Rome,  the  occasion  of  sending  Octavia 
back  to  Rome  as  a  mediator.  In  the  east  his  pleasure  lies,  and 
he's  glad  to  get  rid  of  her.  Poor  Octavia  is  in  a  situation  not 
unlike,  but  more  pathetic  than,  that  of  Blanch  of  Castile,  in  King 
John.  She  says  in  the  preceding  scene,  in  reply  to  Antony's 
complaint  of  Octavius : 

"  Oct.  O  my  good  lord, 

Believe  not  all ;  or,  if  you  must  believe, 
Stomach  *  not  all.    A  more  unhappy  lady, 
If  this  division  chance,  ne'er  stood  between, 
Praying  for  both  parts : 
The  good  gods  will  mock  me  presently,  f 
When  I  shall  pray,  '  O,  bless  my  lord  and  husband ! ' 
Undo  that  prayer,  by  crying  out  as  loud, 
*  O,  bless  my  brother ! '    Husband  win,  win  brother, 
Prays,  and  destroys  the  prayer ;  no  midway 
'Twixt  these  extremes  at  all .J 

Ant.  Gentle  Octavia, 

Let  your  best  love  draw  to  that  point,  which  seeks 
Best  to  preserve  it :  if  I  lose  mine  honour, 
I  lose  myself;  better  I  were  not  yours 
Than  yours  so  branchless.     But  as  you  requested, 
Yourself  shall  go  between's  ;  the  meantime,  lady, 
I'll  raise  the  preparation  of  a  war 
Shall  stain  §  your  brother :  make  your  soonest  haste  ; 
So  your  desires  are  yours. 


*  resent.  t  immediately. 

\  Compare  this  speech  with  that  of  Blanch  (King  John,  A.  III.  Sc.  i.  331 

336): 

"  Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  raayst  win; 

Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  mayst  lose; 
Father,  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine; 
Grandam,  I  will  not  wish  thy  wishes  thrive: 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose; 
Assured  loss  before  the  match  be  play'd." 
§  eclipse. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  29$ 

Oct.  Thanks  to  my  lord. 

The  Jove  of  power  make  me  most  weak,  most  weak, 
Your  reconciler !    Wars  'twixt  you  twain  would  be 
As  if  the  world  would  cleave,  and  that  slain  men 
Should  solder  up  the  rift. 

Ant.   When  it  appears  to  you  where  this  begins, 
Turn  your  displeasure  that  way ;  for  our  faults 
Can  never  be  so  equal,  that  your  love 
Can  equally  move  with  them.     Provide  your  going ; 
Choose  your  own  company,  and  command  what  cost 
Your  heart  has  mind  to."  {Exeunt. 

In  the  6th  Scene,  Octavius  gives  expression  to  the  grievances 
which  Antony's  conduct  in  Egypt  is  causing  him,  if  grievances 
they  can  be  called  which  afford  him  a  pretext  for  doing  just  what 
he  desires  to  do.  He  has  got  rid  of  Lepidus  and  Pompey,  and  his 
purpose  is  now  to  get  rid  of  Antony  and  rule  alone ;  and  toward 
this  end,  Antony,  in  his  crazy  infatuation,  is  himself  co-operating 
—  is  doing  more  than  Octavius  himself.  Octavius's  consummate 
skill  as  a  politician  is  especially  shown  in  his  securing  the  willing 
co-operation  of  those  who  are  in  his  way,  toward  the  realization 
of  his  ambitious  aims.  They  are  entrapped  into  the  belief  that 
they  are  advancing  their  own  individual  interests  while  they  are 
exclusively  advancing  his  own. 

"  They  see  the  card  that  falls,  —  he  knows 
The  card  that  followeth."  * 

Octavius  says  to  Agrippa  and  Mecaenas  : 

"  Contemning  Rome,  he  has  done  all  this,  and  more, 
In  Alexandria ;  here's  the  manner  of  1t : 
P  the  market-place,  on  a  tribunal  silver'd, 
Cleopatra  and  himself  in  chairs  of  gold 
Were  publicly  enthroned :  at  the  feet  sat 
Cassation,  whom  they  call  my  father's  son, 
And  all  the  unlawful  issue  that  their  lust 


*  Adapted  from  Rossetti's  "  Card  Dealer." 


296  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Since  then  has  made  between  them.     Unto  her 
He  gave  the  stablishment  of  Egypt ;  made  her 
Of  lower  Syria,  Cyprus,  Lydia, 
Absolute  queen. 

Mec.  This  in  the  public  eye? 

Cas.  In  the  common  show-place,  where  they  exercise  .  .  . 
The  people  know  it ;  and  have  now  received 
His  accusations. 

Agr.  Who  does  he  accuse  ? 

CCES.   Caesar :  and  that,  having  in  Sicily 
Sextus  Pompeius  spoil'd,  we  had  not  rated  him 
His  part  o1  the  isle  :  then  does  he  say,  he  lent  me 
Some  shipping  unrestored  :  lastly,  he  frets 
That  Lepidus  of  the  triumvirate 
Should  be  deposed ;  and,  being,  that  we  detain 
All  his  revenue. 

Agr.  Sir,  this  should  be  answer'd. 

Cess.   'Tis  done  already,  and  the  messenger  gone." 

Octavius  is  a  man  of  dispatch.  He  is  always  fully  up  to,  if  not 
ahead  of,  time.  Keen-eyed  ambition,  such  as  his  "  on  occasion's 
forelock  watchful  waits."  * 

Octavia  enters  with  her  train.  Her  brother  expresses  great 
surprise  at  her  having  come  as  a  market-maid  to  Rome.  The  ex- 
travagance of  his  language  is  evidently  designed  to  exhibit  his 
insincerity : 

"...  the  wife  of  Antony 
Should  have  an  army  for  an  usher,  and 
The  neighs  of  horse  to  tell  of  her  approach 
Long  ere  she  did  appear ;  the  trees  by  the  way 
Should  have  borne  men ;  and  expectation  fainted, 
Longing  for  what  it  had  not ;  nay,  the  dust 
Should  have  ascended  to  the  roof  of  heaven, 
Raised  by  your  populous  troops ;  but  you  are  come 
A  market-maid  to  Rome  ;  and  have  prevented 
The  ostentation  of  our  love,  which,  left  unshown 


*  "Paradise  Regained,"  III.  173. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  297 

Is  often  left  unloved ;  *  we  should  have  met  you 
By  sea  and  land  ;  supplying  every  stage 
With  an  augmented  greeting. 

Oct.  Good  my  lord, 

To  come  thus  was  I  not  constraint,  but  did 
On  my  free  will.     My  lord,  Mark  Antony, 
Hearing  that  you  prepared  for  war,  acquainted 
My  grieved  ear  withal ;  whereon,  I  begg'd 
His  pardon  f  for  return. 

Cas.  Which  soon  he  granted, 

Being  an  abstract  J  'tween  his  lust  and  him. 

Oct.   Do  not  say  so,  my  lord. 

CCES.  I  have  eyes  upon  him, 

And  his  affairs  come  to  me  on  the  wind.  § 
Where  is  he  now  ? 

Oct.  My  lord,  in  Athens. 

Cces.   No,  my  most  wronged  sister ;  Cleopatra 
Hath  nodded  him  to  her.     He  hath  given  his  empire 
Up  to  a  whore  ;  who  ||  now  are  levying 
The  kings  o'  the  earth  for  war :  .  .  . 

Oct.  Ay  me,  most  wretched, 

That  have  my  heart  parted  betwixt  two  friends 
That  do  afflict  each  other ! 

Cces.  Welcome  hither : 

Your  letters  did  withhold  our  breaking  forth ; 
Till  we  perceived,  both  how  you  were  wrong  led, 
And  we  in  negligent  danger. ^[    Cheer  your  heart : 
Be  you  not  troubled  with  the  time,  which  drives 
O'er  your  content  these  strong  necessities ; 
But  let  determined  things  to  destiny** 


*  deprived  of  its  character  as  love. 

t  leave,  permission,  with  the  implied  idea  of  apologizing  for  the  same. 

\  As  Schmidt  explains,  "  the  shortest  way  for  him  and  his  desires,  the  readi- 
est opportunity  to  encompass  his  wishes."  Most  editors  substitute  "  obstruct," 
suggested  by  Warburton. 

§  A  revelation  of  his  keen-eyed  ambition  which  "  on  occasion's  forelock 
watchful  waits."  ||  "  who  "  =  and  they. 

^f  danger  due  to  negligence.  **  things  determined  to  destiny. 


298  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Hold  unbewail'd  their  way.     Welcome  to  Rome  ; 
Nothing  more  dear  to  me.     You  are  abused 
Beyond  the  mark  of  thought :  and  the  high  gods, 
To  do  you  justice,  make  them  ministers 
Of  us  and  those  that  love  you.     Best  of  comfort ;  * 
And  ever  welcome  to  us. 

Agr.  Welcome,  lady. 

Mec.  Welcome,  dear  madam. 
Each  heart  in  Rome  does  love  and  pity  you : 
Only  the  adulterous  Antony,  most  large 
In  his  abominations,  turns  you  off ; 
And  gives  his  potent  regiment  f  to  a  trull,  \ 
That  noises  it  §  against  us. 

Oct.  Is  it  so,  sir? 

Cces.   Most  certain.     Sister,  welcome  :  pray  you, 
Be  ever  known  to  patience  :  my  dear'st  sister ! "          {Exeunt. 

Octavius  feigns  a  brotherly  affection  so  well  that  the  reader  is 
apt  to  be  deceived,  and  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  he  is  really 
only  carrying  out  a  purpose  which  he  had  when  he  gave  his  sister 
in  marriage  to  Antony  —  that  purpose  being  to  have  a  plausible 
occasion  for  breaking  with  Antony  and,  by  force  of  arms,  getting 
him  out  of  the  way  in  the  sovereignty  of  the  Roman  world.  Antony 
has  acted  just  as  he  supposed  he  would,  and  Enobarbus,  to  whom 
the  dramatic  situation  seems  to  be  ever  revealed,  saw  clearly  what 
the  result  of  the  marriage  would  be.  He  says  to  Menas  (A.  II. 
Sc.  vi.)  :  "  You  shall  find  the  band  that  seems  to  tie  their  friend- 
ship together  will  be  the  very  strangler  of  their  amity.  Octavia  is 
of  a  holy,  cold,  and  still  conversation.  Menas.  Who  would  not 
have  his  wife  so?  Enobarbus.  Not  he  that  himself  is  not  so; 
which  is  Mark  Antony.  He  will  to  his  Egyptian  dish  again  : 
then  shall  the  sighs  of  Octavia  blow  the  fire  up  in  Caesar ;  and, 
as  I  said  before,  that  which  is  the  strength  of  their  amity  shall 
prove  the  immediate  author  of  their  variance.  Antony  will  use 


*  Optative :  "  best  of  comfort "  be  to  you.       f  rule,  sway. 

$  harlot.  §  Used  indefinitely.    Gr.  226. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  299 

his  affection  where  it  is;  he  married  but  his  occasion  here." 
Enobarbus  is  "as  good  as  a  chorus."  The  whole  situation  of 
things,  in  their  successive  stages,  can  be  read  in  his  speeches. 

Shakespeare  often,  as  does  a  cunning  artist  in  color,  produces 
effects  by  a  few  slight  touches  —  places  distinctly  before  us  a  per- 
sonality with  which  we  are  brought  into  a  sympathetic  relationship, 
though  that  personalty  says  and  does  very  little  in  a  play.  It  must 
not  be  supposed  that  the  dramatic  artist  defined  to  himself,  with 
any  distinctness,  such  a  personality.  By  his  artistic  skill  he  was 
able  to  produce  a  certain  impression  upon  the  feelings,  as  a  color 
artist  produces  a  certain  impression  upon  the  eye. 

Octavia  is  a  signal  illustration  of  this.  How  little  she  says  and 
does  !  And  yet  through  that  little  we  are  made  so  to  feel  the 
beauty  of  her  womanhood,  that  it  serves,  along  with  the  other 
dramatic  agencies  employed  to  that  end,  to  deepen  our  sense  of 
the  ruin  wrought  by  "  fleshly  lusts  which  war  against  the  soul." 
This  "gem  of  women"  cannot  withhold  Antony  from  his  "Egyp- 
tian dish."  He  returns  to  the  poisonous  food,  which  will  now 
soon  do  for  him  its  fatal  work. 

All  things  are  now  ready  for  the  final  conflict  —  a  conflict  which 
will  not  only  bring  the  historical  movement  to  its  goal,  namely, 
the  "  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom "  of  Octavius,  but 
(and  this  is  really  the  leading  purpose  of  the  drama,  the  other 
being  rather  the  dramatic  background)  the  bondage  of  Antony 
will  be  exhibited,  in  this  final  conflict,  in  the  boldest  relief.  But 
the  great  artist  will  not  allow  him  to  be  entirely  divorced  from 
our  sympathies.  The  nobler  qualities  of  his  nature  which  have, 
at  times,  suffered  a  total  eclipse,  will  come  out  sufficiently  to 
assure  us  that  they  are  not  altogether  destroyed. 

Against  the  advice  of  his  lieutenant-general,  Canidius,  and  the 
clear-sighted,  sagacious  Enobarbus,  and  the  entreaty  of  a  veteran 
soldier,  he  persists  in  his  purpose  of  fighting  by  sea.  The  7th 
Scene  of  the  $d  Act  exhibits  this  persistence,  which  has  no  other 
basis  than  the  caprice  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  is  a  slave. 


300  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

"  SCENE  VII.     Near  Actium.     Antonyms  camp. 
Enter  CLEOPATRA  and  ENOBARBUS. 

Cleo.   I  will  be  even  with  thee,  doubt  it  not. 

Eno.    But  why,  why,  why? 

Cleo.   Thou  hast  forspoke  *  my  being  in  these  wars, 
And  say'st  it  is  not  fit. 

Eno.  Well,  is  it,  is  it? 

Cleo.  Is't  not  denounced  against  us?t  why  should  not  we 
Be  there  in  person?  .  .  . 

Eno.   Your  presence  needs  must  puzzle  Antony ; 
Take  from  his  heart,  take  from  his  brain,  from's  time, 
What  should  not  then  be  spared.     He  is  already 
Traduced  for  levity ;  and  'tis  said  in  Rome 
That  Photinus  an  eunuch  and  your  maids 
Manage  this  war. 

Cleo.  Sink  Rome,  and  their  tongues  rot 

That  speak  against  us !    A  charge  we  bear  i1  the  war, 
And,  as  the  president  of  my  kingdom,  will 
Appear  there  for  a  man.     Speak  not  against  it ; 
I  will  not  stay  behind. 

Eno.  Nay,  I  have  done. 

Here  comes  the  emperor. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  CANIDIUS. 

Ant.  Is  it  not  strange,  Canidius, 

That  from  Tarentum  and  Brundusium 
He  could  so  quickly  cut  the  Ionian  sea, 
And  take  in  \  Toryne?     You  have  heard  on't,  sweet? 

Cleo.   Celerity  is  never  more  admired 
Than  by  the  negligent. 

Ant.  A  good  rebuke, 

Which  might  have  well  becomed  the  best  of  men, 
To  taunt  at  slackness.     Canidius,  we 
Will  fight  with  him  by  sea. 

Cleo.  By  sea !  what  else  ? 

Can.   Why  will  my  lord  do  so? 


*  spoken  against,      f  "  Is  n°t  the  war  declared  against  us  ?  "      \  capture. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  301 

Ant.  For  that  he  dares  us  to't. 

Eno.   So  hath  my  lord  dared  him  to  single  fight. 

Can.   Ay,  and  to  wage  this  battle  at  Pharsalia, 
Where  Caesar  fought  with  Pompey :  but  these  offers, 
Which  serve  not  for  his  vantage,  he  shakes  off; 
And  so  should  you." 

Antony  gets  the  best  advice  from  his  advisers,  but  this  best 
advice  only  serves  to  exhibit  his  crazy  persistence  in  what  will 
result  in  his  ruin.  His  "  wit's  diseased." 

"  Eno.  Your  ships  are  not  well  manned ; 

Your  mariners  are  muleteers,  reapers,  people 
Ingross'd  by  swift  impress  ;  *  in  Caesar's  fleet 
Are  those  that  often  have  'gainst  Pompey  fought : 
Their  ships  are  yare ;  f  yours,  heavy  :  no  disgrace 
Shall  fall  you  for  refusing  him  at  sea, 
Being  prepared  for  land. 

Ant.  By  sea,  by  sea. 

Eno.   Most  worthy  sir,  you  therein  throw  away 
The  absolute  soldiership  you  have  by  land ; 
Distract  your  army,  which  doth  most  consist 
Of  war-mark'd  footmen ;  leave  unexecuted 
Your  own  renowned  knowledge ;  quite  forego 
The  way  which  promises  assurance ;  and 
Give  up  yourself  merely  J  to  chance  and  hazard, 
From  firm  security. 

Ant.  I'll  fight  at  sea. 

Cleo.   I  have  sixty  sails,  Caesar  none  better. 

Ant.  Our  overplus  of  shipping  will  we  burn ; 
And,  with  the  rest  full-mann'd,  from  the  head  of  Actium 
Beat  the  approaching  Caesar.     But  if  we  fail, 
We  then  can  do't  at  land. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thy  business  ? 

Mess.   The  news  is  true,  my  lord ;  he  is  descried ; 
Caesar  has  taken  Toryne. 


*  "  got  together  by  hurried  impressment  or  levy." 

t  "  light  and  manageable."  \  wholly,  entirely. 


3O2  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

Ant.   Can  he  be  there  in  person  ?  'tis  impossible ; 
Strange  that  his  powers  should  be." 

Octavius's  rapid  movements  are  in  strong  contrast  with  Antony's 

dallying  foolery. 

"Canidius, 

Our  nineteen  legions  thou  shalt  hold  by  land, 
And  our  twelve  thousand  horse.     We'll  to  our  ship." 

And  then,  addressing  Cleopatra,  he  says,  "  Away,  my  Thetis  ! " 
i.e.,  my  sea-nymph ;  in  which  is  implied  that  he  regards  himself 
already  as  Neptune,  god  of  the  sea,  and  Cleopatra  as  his  Thetis. 

"  Enter  a  Soldier. 

How,  now,  worthy  soldier? 
Sold.   O  noble  emperor,  do  not  fight  by  sea ; 
Trust  not  to  rotten  planks :  do  you  misdoubt 
This  sword  and  these  my  wounds  ?     Let  the  Egyptians 
And  the  Phrenicians  go  a-ducking :  *  we 
Have  used  f  to  conquer,  standing  on  the  earth, 
And  fighting  foot  to  foot. 
Ant.  Well,  well :  away ! 

\Exeunt  ANTONY,  CLEOPATRA,  and  ENOBARBUS. 
Sold.   By  Hercules,  I  think  I  am  i'  the  right. 
Can.   Soldier,  thou  art :  but  his  whole  action  grows 
Not  in  the  power  on't ;  so  our  leader's  led, 
And  we  are  women's  men. 


*  i.e.,  as  ducks  on  the  water. 

t  been  accustomed.  Shakespeare  follows  Plutarch  closely  here :  "  Now  as 
he  was  setting  his  men  in  order  of  battle,  there  was  a  captain,  a  valiant  man, 
that  had  served  Antonius  in  many  battles  and  conflicts,  and  had  all  his  body 
hacked  and  cut;  who,  as  Antonius  passed  by  him,  cried  unto  him  and  said : 
'  O  noble  emperor,  how  cometh  it  to  pass  that  you  trust  to  these  vile,  brittle 
ships?  What,  do  you  mistrust  these  wounds  of  mine,  and  this  sword?  Let 
the  Egyptians  and  Phoenicians  fight  by  sea,  and  set  us  on  the  main  land, 
where  we  use  [are  accustomed]  to  conquer  or  to  be  slain  on  our  feet.'  An- 
tonius passed  him  by  and  said  never  a  word,  but  only  beckoned  to  him  with 
his  hand  and  head,  as  though  he  willed  him  to  be  of  good  courage,  although 
indeed,  he  had  no  great  courage  himself." 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  303 

Sold.  You  keep  by  land 

The  legions  and  the  horse  whole,  do  you  not? 

Can.   Marcus  Octavius,  Marcus  Justeius, 
Publicola,  and  Caelius,  are  for  sea : 
But  we  keep  whole  by  land.    This  speed  of  Caesar's 
Carries  beyond  belief. 

Sold.  While  he  was  yet  in  Rome, 

His  power  went  out  in  such  distractions  as 
Beguiled  all  spies. 

Can.  Who's  his  lieutenant,  hear  you? 

Sold.   They  say,  one  Taurus. 

Can.  Well  I  know  the  man. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.   The  emperor  calls  Canidius. 

Can.   With  news  the  time's  with  labour,  and  throes  forth, 
Each  minute,  some."  {Exeunt. 

The  calamitous  result  of  the  sea-fight  is  told  in  the  loth  Scene. 
Cleopatra's  ship,  "the  Antoniad,  the  Egyptian  admiral,  with  all 
their  sixty,  fly  and  turn  the  rudder  "  ;  and  "  she  once  being  loof  d, 
the  noble  ruin  of  her  magic,  Antony,  claps  on  his  sea-wing,  and, 
like  a  doating  mallard,  leaving  the  fight  in  height,  flies  after  her." 
When  Canidius,  who  has  been  commanding  the  land  forces,  learns 
of  the  disaster,  he  says  :  "  To  Caesar  will  I  render  my  legions  and 
my  horse  ;  six  kings  already  show  me  the  way  of  yielding."  The 
saddened  but  still  faithful  Enobarbus  replies  :  "  I'll  yet  follow  the 
wounded  chance  of  Antony,  though  my  reason  sits  in  the  wind 
against  me." 

The  disastrous  consequences  of  his  insane  persistence  to  fight 
at  sea,  in  spite  of  all  entreaty  to  the  contrary,  cause  Antony  to 
rise  to  a  deep  and  mortifying  sense  of  his  infatuation  and  enslave- 
ment. It  is  in  representing  the  moral  struggle  which  ensues  that 
he  is  kept  within  the  pale  of  our  sympathy.  He  is  not  wholly 
despicable.  He  is  capable  of  feeling  the  degradation  of  his  situa- 
tion. To  his  attendants  he  says  :  "  Hark  !  the  land  bids  me  tread 
no  more  upon't ;  it  is  ashamed  to  bear  me  ! "  He  thinks  of 
Philippi,  and  what  he  showed  himself  there.  Octavius,  he  says, 


304  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

"  Kept 

His  sword  e'en  like  a  dancer,  while  I  struck 
The  lean  and  wrinkled  Cassius ;  and  'twas  I 
That  the  mad  Brutus  ended :  he  alone 
Dealt  on  lieutenantry,  and  no  practice  had 
In  the  brave  squares  of  war ;  yet  now  —  no  matter." 

But  the  "serpent  of  old  Nile  "  soon  has  him  again  in  her  bril- 
liant folds.     Weeping,  she  says  : 

"  O  my  lord,  my  lord, 
Forgive  my  fearful  sails !     I  little  thought 
You  would  have  follow'd. 

Ant.  Egypt,  thou  knew'st  too  well 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings, 
And  thou  shouldst  tow  me  after :  o'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st,  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleo.  O,  my  pardon ! 

Ant.  Now  I  must 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I  pleased, 
Making  and  marring  fortunes.     You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleo.  Pardon,  pardon ! 

Ant.   Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say ;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost :  give  me  a  kiss  ; 
Even  this  repays  me.*     We  sent  our  schoolmaster; 
Is  he  come  back?    Love,  I  am  full  of  lead. 
Some  wine,  within  there,  and  our  viands  !     Fortune  knows 
We  scorn  her  most  when  most  she  offers  blows."  {Exeunt. 

*  "  He  holds  a  dubious  balance :  —  yet  that  scale, 
Whose  freight  the  world  is,  surely  should  prevail? 
No;   Cleopatra  droppeth  into  this 
One  counterpoising  orient  sultry  kiss." 
—  "  Epigrams  of  Art,  Life,  and  Nature."     By  William  Watson.     Ep.  xviii. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  305 

At  this  point,  when  a  kiss  can  counterpoise  "  that  scale,  whose 
freight  the  world  is,"  the  fatality  of  an  overmastering  passion  has 
fully  set  in.  Antony  can  withdraw  from  the  sovereignty  of  the 
world,  but  cling  to  Cleopatra  he  must,  till  he  die. 

In  the  next  Scene,  his  ambassador,  Euphronius,  presents  his 
humiliating  petition  to  Octavius  : 

"  Lord  of  his  fortunes  he  salutes  thee,  and 
Requires  *  to  live  in  Egypt :  which  not  granted 
He  lessens  his  requests  ;  and  to  thee  sues 
To  let  him  breathe  between  the  heavens  and  earth, 
A  private  man  in  Athens  :  this  for  him. 
Next,  Cleopatra  does  confess  thy  greatness ; 
Submits  her  to  thy  might ;  and  of  thee  craves 
The  circle  f  of  the  Ptolemies  for  her  heirs, 
Now  hazarded  to  thy  grace." 

Octavius's  reply  expresses  the  attitude  which  the  imperturbable 
victor  will  maintain  to  the  end.  Antony  and  he  must  not  together 
"  breathe  between  the  heavens  and  earth." 

"  For  Antony, 

I  have  no  ears  to  his  request.     The  queen 
Of  audience  nor  desire  shall  fail,  so  she 
From  Egypt  drive  her  all-disgraced  friend, 
Or  take  his  life  there :  this  if  she  perform, 
She  shall  not  sue  unheard.     So  to  them  both." 

Octavius,  in  the  same  scene,  when  the  ambassador  goes  out, 
instructs  Thyreus  to  try  his  eloquence  to  win  Cleopatra  from 

Antony : 

"  Promise, 

And  in  our  name,  what  she  requires  ;  add  more, 
From  thine  invention,  offers  :  women  are  not 
In  their  best  fortunes  strong ;  but  want  will  perjure 
The  ne'er-touch'd  vestal :  try  thy  cunning,  Thyreus ; 
Make  thine  own  edict  for  thy  pains,  which  we 
Will  answer  as  a  law.  .  .  . 


*  requests.  f  crown. 


306  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Observe  how  Antony  becomes  his  flaw,* 
And  what  thou  think'st  his  very  action  speaks 
In  every  power  f  that  moves." 

In  the  next  Scene,  to  Cleopatra's  question,  "  Is  Antony  or  we  in 
fault  for  this  ?  "  Enobarbus  replies  : 

"  Antony  only,  that  would  make  his  will 
Lord  of  his  reason.     What  though  you  fled 
.  .  .  why  should  he  follow? 
The  itch  of  his  affection  should  not  then 
Have  nick'd  his  captainship ;  at  such  a  point, 
When  half  to  half  the  world  opposed,  he  being 
The  meered  question :  %  'twas  a  shame  no  less 
Than  was  his  loss,  to  course  your  flying  flags, 
And  leave  his  navy  gazing." 

When  Antony  learns  from  Euphronius  the  answer  of  Octavius 
to  his  petition,  his  feelings  vent  themselves  in  merely  "  wild  and 
whirling  words  "  about  his  victor's  youth  and  resources ;  and  he 

adds  : 

"  I  dare  him  therefore 
To  lay  his  gay  comparisons  §  apart, 
And  answer  me  declined, ||  sword  against  sword, 
Ourselves  alone.     I'll  write  it :  follow  me." 

When  he  goes  out  with  Euphronius,  Enobarbus  comments  on 
the  emptiness  of  his  words  : 

"Yes,  like  enough,  high-battled  *|f  Caesar  will 
Unstate  **  his  happiness,  and  be  staged  ft  to  the  show, 


*  "  conforms  himself  to  this  breach  of  his  fortune." 
f  "  bodily  organ."     See  Troilus  and  Cressida,  A.  IV.  Sc.  v.  55-57. 
J  "  he  being  the  only  cause  and  subject  of  the  war." 
§  "  all  things  which  are  in  his  favor  when  compared  with  me." 
||  "  fallen  in  fortune." 
^f  "  commanding  proud  armies." 

**  "  Divest  of  state  and  dignity  his  good  fortune." 

•ft  "  exhibited  on  the  stage  against  a  gladiator/' 


CNIVEfcfc 

ANTONY  AND   CLEOPAT^C  307 


Against  a  sworder !    I  see  men's  judgments  are 

A  parcel  of  their  fortunes :  *  and  things  outward 

Do  draw  the  inward  quality  after  them, 

To  suffer  all  alike.     That  he  should  dream, 

Knowing  all  measures,  the  full  Caesar  will 

Answer  his  emptiness !    Caesar,  thou  hast  subdued 

His  judgment  too.  .  .  . 

Mine  honesty  and  I  begin  to  square. f 

The  loyalty  well  held  to  fools  does  make 

Our  faith  mere  folly." 

But  in  the  next  sentence  he  shows  the  reluctance  of  his  dis- 
affection : 

"  Yet  he  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fallen  lord 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  master  conquer, 
And  earns  a  place  i'  the  story." 

Antony  returns  and  comes  upon  Thyreus  kissing  the  hand  of 
Cleopatra.  He  is  inflamed  with  jealous  rage,  and  orders  the 
messenger  from  Octavius  to  be  soundly  whipped.  She  for  whom 
he  has  sacrificed  a  world  hejears  is  untrue  to  him.  He  comes  to 
a  sense  of  his  degradation: 

"  When  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard 

(Oh  misery  on't)  the  wise  gods  seel  our  eyes, 
In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments,  make  us 
Adore  our  errors,  laugh  at's  while  we  strut 
To  our  confusion."  \ 

But  he  is  soon  overcome  by  Cleopatra's  artful  and  lachrymose 
appeals.  Her  control  over  him  is  absolute.  What  remains  of  his 
moral  sense  goes  for  nothing.  In  his  weak  violence,  or  rather 
violent  weakness,  as  her  slave,  he  ejaculates  : 

"  I  will  be  treble-sinew'd,  hearted,  breathed, 
And  fight  maliciously :  for  when  mine  hours 


"  of  a  piece  with  their  fortunes."  f  quarrel.  \  destruction. 


3O8  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATKA. 

Were  nice  and  lucky,  men  did  ransom  lives 
Of  me  for  jests  :  but  now,  Pll  set  my  teeth, 
And  send  to  darkness  all  that  stop  me." 

And  see  the  preparation  he  proposes  for  all  this  ! 

"Come, 

Let's  have  one  other  gawdy  night :  *  call  to  me 
All  my  sad  Captains,  fill  our  bowls  once  more  : 
Let's  mock  the  midnight  bell. 

Cleo.  It  is  my  birth-day : 

I  had  thought  to  have  held  it  poor :  but  since  my  lord 
Is  Antony  again,  I  will  be  Cleopatra." 

There's  an  unconscious  and  pathetic  if  not  ludicrous  irony  in 
this  speech  :  "  but  since  my  lord  is  Antony  again,"  really  means, 
he  has  returned  to  his  weak  and  sensual  self;  "  I  will  be  Cleo- 
patra," that  is,  she  will  be  again  the  fascinating  serpent  of  old 
Nile.  When  all  go  out  but  Enobarbus,  we  have  from  him  again 
a  comment  on  the  emptiness  of  Antony's  words  and  on  his 
weak  violence : 

"  Now  he'll  outstare  the  lightning.    To  be  furious, 
Is  to  be  frighted  out  of  fear ;  and  in  that  mood 
The  dove  will  peck  the  estridge ;  and  I  see  still, 
A  diminution  in  our  Captain's  brain 
Restores  his  heart ;  when  valour  preys  on  reason, 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with.    I  will  seek 
Some  way  to  leave  him." 

A  second  battle  results  in  a  temporaiy  advantage  to  Antony's 
forces  on  land  —  a  mere  "  lightning  before  death  "  —  which  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  utter  destruction  of  the  Egyptian  fleet.  Antony 
believes,  and  perhaps  truly,  that  Cleopatra  has  betrayed  him. 
(That  she  was  not  indisposed  to  do  so,  seems  to  be  intimated  in 
her  interview  with  Thyreus.) 

"  Betray'd  I  am  : 
Oh  this  false  soul  of  Egypt !  this  grave  charm, f 


joyous,  festive.  f  fatal  charmer. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  309 

Whose  eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars,  and  call'd  them  home : 
Whose  bosom  was  my  crownet,  my  chief  end, 
Like  a  right  gipsy,  hath,  at  fast  and  loose,* 
Beguiled  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss. f 

Enter  CLEOPATRA. 

Ah,  thou  spell?  Avaunt! 

Cleo,   Why  is  my  lord  enraged  against  his  love  ? 

Ant.   Vanish,  or  I  shall  give  thee  thy  deserving, 
And  blemish  Caesar's  triumph.    Let  him  take  thee, 
And  hoist  thee  up  to  the  shouting  plebeians : 
Follow  his  chariot,  like  the  greatest  spot 
Of  all  thy  sex:  most  monster-like,}:  be  shown 
For  poor'st  diminutives,  for  dolts, §  and  let 
Patient  Octavia  plough  thy  visage  up 
With  her  prepared  nails.  {Exit  CLEOPATRA. 

'Tis  well  thou'rt  gone, 
If  it  be  well  to  live ;  but  better  'twere 
Thou  fell'st  into  my  fury,  for  one  death 
Might  have  prevented  many.   .  .  . 

The  witch  shall  die  : 

To  the  young  Roman  boy  she  hath  sold  me,  and  I  fall 
Under  this  plot ;  she  dies  for't." 

Here  it  would  appear  that  all  the  ties  which  have  bound  him  to 
Cleopatra  have  been  severed.  But  it  is  not  so,  and  Cleopatra  pro- 
ceeds to  prove  it  not  so.  In  the  next  Scene  she  instructs  Mardian 
to  tell  him  she  has  slain  herself : 

"  Say,  that  the  last  I  spoke  was   'Antony' ; 
And  word  it,  prithee,  piteously :  hence,  Mardian, 
And  bring  me  how  he  takes  my  death." 

What  has  become  the  mainspring  of  Antony's  being  in  this 
world,  he  feels  is  broken,  and  that,  therefore,  nothing  now  remains 


*  a  cheating  game.  f  the  extremity  of  loss. 

J  "  as  a  monster,  or  monstrosity." 

§  "  be  made  a  show  for  the  lowest  and  stupidest  of  the  people." 


310  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

for  him  but  to  die.  With  a  sense  of  the  dispersion  and  fading 
out  of  all  earthly  things,  a  sense  which  shows  the  remains  of  a 
noble  nature,  he  says,  to  the  faithful  Eros  : 

"  Sometime  we  see  a  cloud  that's  dragonish, 
A  vapour  sometime,  like  a  bear  or  lion, 
A  towered  citadel,  a  pendent  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon't,  that  nod  unto  the  world, 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air :  thou  hast  seen  these  signs ; 
They  are  black  vesper's  pageants. 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.    That  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with  a  thought 
The  rack  dislimns,  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

Ant.    My  good  knave  Eros,  now  thy  captain  is 
Even  such  a  body  :  here  I  am  Antony ; 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  visible  shape,  my  knave. 
I  made  these  wars  for  Egypt,  and  the  queen,  — 
Whose  heart  I  thought  I  had,  for  she  had  mine, 
Which  whilst  it  was  mine  had  annex'd  unto't 
A  million  moe,  now  lost,  —  she,  Eros,  has 
Pack'd  cards  with  Caesar,  and  false-play'd  my  glory 
Unto  an  enemy's  triumph. 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  Eros  ;  there  is  left  us 
Ourselves  to  end  ourselves." 

But  when  he  is  told  by  Mardian  that  Cleopatra  is  dead,  the  love 
which  has  proved  so  fatal  to  him,  reasserts  itself,  and  the  desire 
to  be  reunited  to  her  determines  him  to  follow  her  to  the  shades 
and  there  to  weep  for  pardon. 

"  I  will  o'ertake  thee,  Cleopatra,  and 
Weep  for  my  pardon.     So  it  must  be,  for  now 
All  length  is  torture :  since  the  torch  is  out, 
Lie  down,  and  stray  no  farther :  now  all  labour 
Mars  what  it  does ;  yea,  very  force  entangles 
Itself  with  strength :  seal  then,  and  all  is  done. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  311 

Eros !  —  I  come,  my  queen :  —  Eros !  —  Stay  for  me : 
Where  souls  do  couch  on  flowers,  we'll  hand  in  hand, 
And  with  our  sprightly  port  make  the  ghosts  gaze  : 
Dido  and  her  ^Eneas  shall  want  troops, 
And  all  the  haunt  be  ours.    Come,  Eros,  Eros ! 

Re-enter  EROS. 

Eros.   What  would  my  lord  ? 

Ant.  Since  Cleopatra  died, 

I  have  lived  in  such  dishonour,  that  the  gods 
Detest  my  baseness.     I,  that  with  my  sword 
Quarter'd  the  world,  and  o'er  green  Neptune's  back 
With  ships  made  cities,  condemn  myself  to  lack 
The  courage  of  a  woman ;  less  noble  mind 
Than  she  which  by  her  death  our  Caesar  tells 
*  I  am  conqueror  of  myself.'     Thou  art  sworn,  Eros, 
That,  when  the  exigent  *  should  come,  which  now 
Is  come  indeed,  when  I  should  see  behind  me 
The  inevitable  prosecution  f  of 
Disgrace  and  horror,  that,  on  my  command, 
Thou  then  wouldst  kill  me :  do't ;  the  time  is  come : 
Thou  strikest  not  me,  'tis  Caesar  thou  defeat'st. 
Put  colour  in  thy  cheek. 

Eros.  The  gods  withhold  me ! 

Shall  I  do  that  which  all  the  Parthian  darts, 
Though  enemy,  lost  aim,  and  could  not? 

Ant.  Eros, 

Wouldst  thou  be  window'd  %  in  great  Rome  and  see 
Thy  master  thus  with  pleach'd  §  arms,  bending  down 
His  corrigible  ||  neck,  his  face  subdued 
To  penetrative  ^[  shame,  whilst  the  wheel'd  seat 
Of  fortunate  Caesar,  drawn  before  him,  branded 
His  baseness  that  ensued?  ** 

Eros.  I  would  not  see't. 

Ant.   Come,  then ;  for  with  a  wound  I  must  be  cured. 


*  exigency.  f  pursuit.  \  stationed  at  a  window.  §  folded. 

||  submissive  to  correction.  \  affecting  the  heart  strongly. 

**  branded  the  baseness  of  him  that  followed. 


312  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Draw  that  thy  honest  sword,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Most  useful  for  thy  country. 

Eros.  O,  sir,  pardon  me! 

Ant.   When  I  did  make  thee  free,  sworest  thou  not  then 
To  do  this  when  I  bade  thee  ?     Do  it  at  once ; 
Or  thy  precedent  services  are  all 
But  accidents  unpurposed.     Draw,  and  come. 

Eros.    Turn  from  me,  then,  that  noble  countenance, 
Wherein  the  worship  of  the  whole  world  lies. 

Ant.    Lothee!  [Turning  from  him. 

Eros.   My  sword  is  drawn. 

Ant.  Then  let  it  do  at  once 

The  thing  why  thou  hast  drawn  it. 

Eros.  My  dear  master, 

My  captain,  and  my  emperor,  let  me  say, 
Before  I  strike  this  bloody  stroke,  farewell. 

Ant.   'Tis  said,  man  ;  and  farewell. 

Eros.   Farewell,  great  chief.     Shall  I  strike  now? 

Ant.  Now,  Eros. 

Eros.   Why,  there  then :  thus  I  do  escape  the  sorrow 
Of  Antony's  death.  {Kills  himself. 

Ant.  Thrice  nobler  than  myself! 

Thou  teachest  me,  O  valiant  Eros,  what 
I  should,  and  thou  couldst  not.     My  queen  and  Eros 
Have  by  their  brave  instruction  got  upon  me 
A  nobleness  in  record :  but  I  will  be 
A  bridegroom  in  my  death,  and  run  into't 
As  to  a  lover's  bed.     Come,  then:  and,  Eros, 
Thy  master  dies  thy  scholar :  to  do  thus 

[Falling  on  his  sword. 

I  learn'd  of  thee.     How!  not  dead?  not  dead? 
The  guard,  ho  !     O,  dispatch  me ! 

Dercetas  and  Guard  enter.     They  refuse  to  do  his  bidding  and 
go  out.     Diomedes  enters,  sent  by  Cleopatra  to  say, 

"  She  had  a  prophesying  fear 
Of  what  hath  come  to  pass  :  for  when  she  saw  — 
Which  never  shall  be  found — you  did  suspect 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  313 

She  had  disposed  with  Casar,  and  that  your  rage 
Would  not  be  purg'd,  she  sent  you  word  she  was  dead ; 
But,  fearing  since  how  it  might  work,  hath  sent 
Me  to  proclaim  the  truth,  —  and  I  am  come, 
I  dread,  too  late." 

A  message  in  which  one  deception  is  admitted,  and  another 
substituted. 

Antony  is  borne  by  the  guard  to  the  monument  where  Cleopatra 
has  locked  herself.  She  heaps  upon  him  expressions  of  her  affec- 
tion, in  words  and  kisses.  He  enjoins  upon  her  to  seek  of  Caesar 
her  honor  with  her  safety,  and  to  trust  none  about  Caesar  but 
Proculeius.  In  regard  to  himself,  he  reposes  overmuch,  for  our 
full  sympathy,  upon  his  past : 

"  The  miserable  change  now  at  my  end 
Lament  nor  sorrow  at ;  but  please  your  thoughts 
In  feeding  them  with  those  my  former  fortunes 
Wherein  I  lived,  the  greatest  prince  o1  the  world, 
The  noblest ;  and  do  now  not  basely  die, 
Nor  cowardly  put  off  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman,  —  a  Roman  by  a  Roman 
Valiantly  vanquished.     Now  my  spirit  is  going; 
I  can  no  more. 

Cleo.  Noblest  of  men,  woo't  die? 

Hast  thou  no  care  of  me  ?  shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world,  which  in  thy  absence  is 
No  better  than  a  sty?     Oh  see,  my  women,        [ANTONY  dies. 
The  crown  o'  the  earth  doth  melt.     My  lord  ? 
Oh  withered  is  the  garland  of  the  war, 
The  soldier's  pole  *  is  falPn  :  young  boys  and  girls 
Are  level  now  with  men  ;  the  odds  is  gone, 
And  there  is  nothing  left  remarkable  f 
Beneath  the  visiting  moon.  [Faints. 

Char.  Oh  quietness,  lady ! 

Iras.   She  is  dead  too,  our  sovereign. 

Char.  Lady ! 


"  loadstar,"  Schmidt.  f  worthy  of  consideration. 


314  ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA. 

Iras.  Madam ! 

Char.   O  madam,  madam,  madam! 

Iras.  Royal  Egypt, 

Empress ! 

Char.     Peace,  peace,  Iras ! 

Cleo.  No  more,  but  e'en  a  woman,  and  commanded 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks 
And  does  the  meanest  chares.*     It  were  for  me 
To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  f  gods  ; 
To  tell  them  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs 
Till  they  had  stol'n  our  jewel.     All's  but  naught ; 
Patience  is  sottish,:};  and  impatience  does 
Become  a  dog  that's  mad  :  then  is  it  sin 
To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death, 
Ere  death  dare  come  to  us  ?     How  do  you,  women  ? 
What,  what !  good  cheer  !     Why,  how  now,  Charmian? 
My  noble  girls  ?     Ah,  women,  women  !  look, 
Our  lamp  is  spent,  it's  out !     Good  sirs,§  take  heart : 
We'll  bury  him ;  and  then,  what's  brave,  what's  noble, 
Let's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion, 
And  make  death  proud  to  take  us.     Come,  away ; 
This  case  of  that  huge  spirit  now  is  cold  : 
Ah,  women,  women !  come ;  we  have  no  friend 
But  resolution,  and  the  briefest  end." 

The  5th  Act  belongs  to  Cleopatra.  All  in  it  is  relative  to  her. 
If  her  love  for  Antony  had  become  the  mainspring  of  her  being, 
as  Antony's  love  for  her  had  become  the  mainspring  of  his  being, 
the  5th  Act  would  hardly  have  been  needed.  "  The  difference 
between  her  and  Antony,"  says  Denton  J.  Snider,  "is  seen  in  the 
fact  that  she  is  willing  to  survive  him,  but  he  was  not  willing  to 
survive  her ;  separation  does  not  mean  death  in  her  case.  There 
is,  however,  no  doubt  about  her  love  for  Antony,  but  there  is  as 
little  doubt  about  her  readiness  to  transfer  it  to  another  person. 


*  turns  of  work;   A.  S.  cyrr,  a  turn. 

f  acting  against  justice  or  right.  J  Endurance  is  foolish. 

§  For  this  use  of  "sirs,"  sec  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  A.  IV.  Sc.  iii.  21 1. 


ANTONY  AND    CLEOPATRA.  315 

She  has  been  making  provision  for  the  future  —  she  has  been 
laying  plans  to  catch  Octavius  in  her  toils.  He  comes  into  her 
presence,  but  he  is  not  charmed ;  his  cool  head  cannot  be  turned 
by  sensuous  enchantment.  This  seals  her  fate.  She  has  met  her 
master;  she  has  found  the  man  who  is  able  to  resist  her  spell. 
The  proof  is  manifest  —  she  learns  that  Octavius  intends  to  take 
her  to  Rome  to  grace  his  triumph.  This  secret  is  confided  to  her 
by  Dolabella,  who  seems  to  be  the  last  victim  of  her  magical 
power.  That  power  is  now  broken;  nothing  remains  except  to 
die.  Still,  she  shows  signs  of  a  better  nature  in  this  latter  part  — 
misfortune  has  ennobled  her  character : 

"  '  My  desolation  begins  to  make  a  better  life. 

"  The  heroic  qualities  of  Antony,  now  that  he  is  gone,  and  she 
can  captivate  no  new  hero,  fill  her  imagination ;  she  will  go  and 
join  him  in  the  world  beyond.  Her  sensual  life  seems  purified 
and  exalted  as  she  gives  expression  to  her  '  immortal  longings.' 
Her  deepest  trait  is,  however,  conquest  through  sensual  love ;  she 
will  live  as  long  as  she  can  conquer ;  when  her  spell  is  once  over- 
come she  will  die,  dwelling  in  imagination  upon  the  greatest  vic- 
tory of  her  principle,  and  upon  its  most  illustrious  victim." 


316  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE  TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

(FIRST  FOLIO  versus  "CAMBRIDGE"  EDITION.) 


OF  the  First  Folio,  J.  Payne  Collier  remarks  ("Memoirs  of  the 
Principal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare,"  pp.  69,  70), 
"  The  book  does  credit  to  the  age,  even  as  a  specimen  of  typog- 
raphy :  it  is  on  the  whole  remarkably  accurate,  and  so  desirous 
were  the  editors  and  printers  of  correctness,  that  they  introduced 
changes  for  the  better,  even  while  the  sheets  were  in  progress 
through  the  press." 

This,  perhaps,  is  too  strongly  stated.  It  is  too  strongly  stated. 
But  the  typographical  errors  with  which  the  book  swarms  have 
led  many  editors  to  put  too  low  an  estimate  on  its  authority,  and 
to  prefer  many  quarto  texts.  The  editors  of  the  "  Cambridge  " 
edition  say,  "  In  Hamlet  we  have  computed  that  the  Folio,  when 
it  differs  from  the  Quartos,  differs  for  the  worse  in  forty-seven 
places,  while  it  differs  for  the  better  in  twenty  at  most."  The 
following  "Jottings,"  I  am  bold  to  say,  show  this  statement  to  be 
very  wide  of  the  mark.  The  punctuation,  too,  of  the  First  Folio, 
faulty  as  it  frequently  is,  is  often  better  than  theirs. 

In  the  present  unsettled  and  irregular  use  of  the  note  of  inter- 
rogation and  the  note  of  exclamation,  I  do  not  expect  that  all 
who  take  the  trouble  to  read  these  "  Jottings  "  will,  in  every  case 
where  the  Folio  has  a  ?  and  the  "  Cambridge  "  an  !,  agree  with  me 
in  my  preference  for  the  ?  of  the  Folio.  But  I  claim  that,  as  both 
are  rhetorical,  the  general  rule  laid  down  by  Wilson,  that,  "  after 
words  to  which  an  answer  is  expected  or  implied,  the  note  of  in- 
terrogation is  added ;  and  after  those,  though  apparently  denoting 


JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  317 

inquiry,  where  no  answer  is  intended  by  the  writer  to  be  given, 
the  note  of  exclamation  is  the  proper  and  distinctive  mark,"  can- 
not be  justified ;  and  more  than  that,  its  observance,  in  pointing 
the  text  of  Shakespeare,  often  leads  to  a  misconception  of  the 
meaning.  When,  in  expressing  a  feeling  of  surprise,  a  mental 
question  is  involved  as  to  the  truth  or  possibility  of  what  occasions 
the  surprise ;  as,  for  example,  when  Horatio  tells  Hamlet  that  he 
thought  he  saw  his  father  the  previous  night,  and  Hamlet  replies, 
"The  King  my  father,"  the  note  of  interrogation  should  most 
certainly  be  used.  The  note  of  exclamation  would  tend  to  mis- 
lead the  reader.  "  Indeed  ! "  represents  a  different  feeling,  and, 
consequently,  a  different  elocution,  from  "Indeed?"  Given  in 

(reply  to  something  that  has  been  said,  "  Indeed  !  "  would  indicate 
an  unquestioning  surprise,  —  the  information  occasioning  it  being 
accepted  as  the  truth.  "  Indeed  !  "  should,  in  such  case,  be  read 
with  a  direct  downward  inflection  of  the  voice.  "  Indeed  ?  "  on  the 
other  hand,  while  also  indicating  surprise,  indicates,  at  the  same 
time,  a  question  in  the  mind  of  the  speaker  as  to  the  truth  or  the 
possibility  of  the  information  occasioning  it,  and  should  be  read 
with  a  strong  interrogative  movement  of  voice  —  the  unequal  up- 
ward wave,  the  upward  inflection  of  the  wave  passing  through  a 
considerably  wider  interval  than  the  downward.  This  distinction 
in  the  use  of  these  two  rhetorical  notes  (for  I  claim  that  they  are 
strictly  rhetorical,  the  authorities  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding), 
is  observed  in  the  Folio  with  a  remarkable  uniformity. 

I  am  ready  to  admit  the  frequent  faultiness  of  the  punctuation 
of  the  Folio,  —  a  faultiness  extending  sometimes  to  absurdity; 
for  example,  "  Making  the  Greene  one,  Red,"  which  has,  however, 
had  its  defenders ;  but  I  am  persuaded,  after  a  careful  study  of 
„•  the  Folio  in  respect  to  the  punctuation,  that,  whoever  did  the 
pointing,  whether  the  author,  in  the  original  manuscript,  the  editors, 
which  is  not  very  likely,  or  the  proof-reader,  if  there  was  one,  or 
the  printer,  it  was  done  with  a  remarkable  regard  to  the  spoken 
language.  And  this  is  especially  true  in  respect  to  the  notes  of 
interrogation  and  of  exclamation.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  per- 


318  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

suaded,  after  an  equally  careful  study  of  the  punctuation  and 
numerous  other  features  of  the  "Cambridge"  text,  that  the  editors 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  voicing  the  language  —  that  they  studied 
it  through  the  eye,  and,  in  regard  to  punctuation,  followed  certain 
prescribed  rules ;  and  thus  went  astray  in  many  particulars. 

It  is  remarkable  how  many  features  of  Elizabethan  English,  ex- 
hibited by  the  early  texts  of  Shakespeare's  Plays,  are  eliminated 
in  modern  "  critical "  texts.  Exact  reprints  of  the  First  Folio 
text  would  be  much  better  for  students  of  the  language  of  the 
time,  than  the  texts  presented  in  school  editions  of  the  Plays,  in 
which  subjunctives  and  their  subjects  are  often  converted,  by 
punctuation,  into  imperatives  and  vocatives,  respectively;  pure 
infinitives,  after  certain  verbs,  into  imperatives ;  word  forms  and 
contracted  forms  of  the  time,  changed  to  those  of  the  present, 
etc.,  etc. 

These  "  Jottings  "  were  privately  printed  some  years  ago  to  set 
forth  some  of  the  unrecognized  merits  of  the  First  Folio  text  of 
Hamlet,  and  to  help  to  induce  a  conservativeness  on  the  part  of 
Shakespeare  students  and  editors.  Dr.  Horace  Howard  Furness 
has  incorporated  most  of  them  in  the  notes  to  his  New  Variorum 
edition  of  Hamlet. 


EDITIONS  OF  HAMLET  REFERRED  TO  IN  THE  NOTES. 


THE 
Tragicall  Historic  of 

HAMLET 

Prince  of  Denmarke. 

By  William  Shake-speare. 

As  it  hath  beene  diuerse  times  acted  by  his  Highnesse  ser- 
uants  in  the  Cittie  of  London :  as  also  in  the  two  V- 
niuersities  of  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  and  else-where. 

At  London  printed  for  N.  L.  and  lohn  Trundell. 
1603. 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  319 

Referred  to  as  the  ist  Quarto.  Two  copies  only  are  known  to 
exist ;  one  is  in  the  Library  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and  wants 
the  last  leaf  containing  the  2  2  concluding  lines ;  the  other  is  in 
the  British  Museum,  and  is  without  the  title-page. 

"The  edition  of  1603  is  obviously  a  very  imperfect  reproduc- 
tion of  the  play,  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  it  was 
printed  from  a  manuscript  surreptitiously  obtained." — Editors 
Cambridge  edition. 

THE 
Tragicall  Historic  of 

HAMLET, 

Prince  of  Denmarke. 
By  William  Shakespeare. 

Newly  imprinted  and  enlarged  to  almost  as  much 
againe  as  it  was,  according  to  the  true  and  perfect 
Coppie. 

AT.   LONDON, 

Printed  by  I.  R.  for  N.  L.  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his 

shoppe  vnder  Saint  Dunstons  Church  in 

Fleetstreet.     1604. 

Referred  to  as  the  2d  Quarto ;  is  of  chief  authority  among  the 
Quarto  editions. 

The  3d  Quarto,  printed  from  the  same  forms  as  the  2d,  was 
published  in  1605  ;  the  4th,  in  1611  ;  the  5th  is  without  date,  but 
the  Cambridge  editors  are  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  printed  from 
the  edition  of  1611  ;  the  6th,  printed  from  the  5th,  was  published 
in  1637. 

Editions  known  as  Players'  Quartos,  were  published  in  1676, 
1685,  1695,  and  1703.  The  variations  which  their  texts  exhibit 
from  the  earlier  editions,  are  without  any  known  authority.  But 
the  Cambridge  editors  state  "that  many  emendations  usually 
attributed  to  Rowe  and  Pope  are  really  derived  from  one  or  other 
of  these  Players'  Quartos." 

The  ist  Folio  was  published  under  the  following  title  : 


320  JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

MR.   WILLIAM 

SH AKESPEARES 

COMEDIES, 
HISTORIES,  & 
TRAGEDIES. 

Published  according  to  the  True  Originall  Copies. 


LONDON 
Printed  by  Isaac  laggard,  and  Ed.  Blount.  1623. 

In  this  volume,  "The  Tragedie  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmarke," 
occupies,  in  the  division  of  Tragedies,  pages  152  to  156,  then  the 
numbering  passes  to  257  and  continues  to  the  end  of  the  play, 
page  282  (but  pages  279  and  282  are  misprinted  259  and  280)  ; 
page  278  copies  vary. 

The  Editors  were  two  of  Shakespeare's  personal  friends  and 
fellow  actors,  John  Heminge  and  Henry  Condell,  whose  long 
professional  experience,  dating  back  to  the  beginning  of  Shake- 
speare's theatrical  career,  and  probably  earlier,  and  continuing 
some  years  after  his  death,  must  have  made  them  familiar  with 
the  authorized  texts  of  his  plays,  and  with  their  renderings  on 
the  stage  of  the  time. 

Our  positive  knowledge  of  Heminge 's  connection  with  theatri- 
cal affairs  extends  back  to  1596,  twenty  years  before  the  death 
of  Shakespeare,  when,  it  appears,  he  was  already  of  some  consid- 
eration as  an  actor.  He  survived  his  great  friend  more  than 
fourteen  years,  dying  in  October,  1630.  Our  earliest  knowledge 
of  Henry  Condell  is,  that  in  1598,  he  sustained  a  part  in  Ben 
Jonson's  "Every  Man  in  his  Humour";  according  to  Collier's 
conjecture,  he  was  the  Captain  Bobadill  of  that  comedy.  His 
connection  with  the  stage  continued  up  to  the  time  of  his  death 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  321 

in  December,  1627.  He  appears  to  have  been  held  in  high 
esteem  by  his  theatrical  associates. 

The  wills  *  of  these  two  men  show  them  to  have  possessed  con- 
siderable property,  to  have  had  strict  business  habits  and  great 
uprightness  of  character,  and  to  have  been  affectionate  husbands 
and  fathers.  Shakespeare  honored  them  with  an  expression  of 
his  regard,  in  the  following  item  of  his  will : 

"  I  gyve  and  bequeath  .  .  .  to  my  fellowes  John  Hemynges, 
Richard  Burb age,  and  Henry  Cundell,  xxvj.*-  viij.d'  a  peece  to  buy 
them  ringes" 

They  express  their  regard  for  their  "Friend  and  Fellow"  in 
their  Dedication  of  the  First  Folio  edition  of  his  plays,  wherein 
they  say,  "  We  haue  but  collected  them,  and  done  an  office  to  the 
dead,  to  procure  his  Orphanes,  Guardians ;  without  ambition 
either  of  selfe-profit,  or  fame :  onely  to  keepe  the  memory  of  so 
worthy  a  Friend,  dr>  Fellow  aliue,  as  was  our  SHAKESPEARE,  by 
humble  offer  of  his  playes,  to  your  most  noble  patronage." 

The  Dedication  is  addressed 

TO   THE    MOST   NOBLE 

AND 

INCOMPARABLE   PAIRE 
OF  BRETHREN. 

WILLIAM 

Earle  of  Pembroke,  &c.       Lord  Chamberlaine  to  the 
Kings  most  Excellent  Maiesty. 

AND 

PHILIP 
Earle  of  Montgomery,  &c.     Gentleman  of  his  Maiesties 

Bed-Chamber.     Both  Knights  of  the  most  Noble  Order 

of  the  Garter,  and  our  singular  good 

LORDS. 


*  Published  in  "  Memoirs  of  the  Principal  Actors  in  the  Plays  of  Shake- 
speare." By  J.  Payne  Collier,  Esq.,  F.S.A.  London :  printed  for  the  Shake- 
speare Society,  1846. 


322  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

"The  text  of  Hamlet  given  in  the  Folio  of  1623  is  not  derived 
from  any  of  the  previously  existing  Quartos,  but  from  an  indepen- 
dent manuscript.  Many  passages  are  found  in  the  Folio  which 
do  not  appear  in  any  of  the  Quartos.  On  the  other  hand  many 
passages  found  in  the  Quartos  are  not  found  in  the  Folio.  It 
is  to  be  remarked  that  several  of  those  which  appear  in  the  Folio 
and  not  in  the  Quarto  of  1604  or  its  successors,  are  found  in 
an  imperfect  form  in  the  Quarto  of  1603,  and  therefore  are  not 
subsequent  additions.  Both  the  Quarto  text  of  1604  and  the 
Folio  text  of  1623  seem  to  have  been  derived  from  manuscripts 
of  the  play  curtailed,  and  curtailed  differently,  for  purposes  of 
representation."  From  Preface  to  Volume  VIII.  of  "  Cambridge  " 
edition. 

The  2d,  3d,  and  4th  Folios  were  published  in  1632,  1663,  and 
1685,  respectively.  The  3d  was  reissued  in  the  following  year 
(1664),  with  a  new  title-page,  and  seven  additional  Plays,  not  now 
regarded  as  by  Shakespeare,  though  they  may  all  have  received 
some  touches  from  his  hand.  They  were  repeated  in  the  4th 
Folio.  These  editions  are  of  no  special  authority  in  the  matter 
of  the  text. 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE   TEXT  OF  SHAKESPEARE^S 
HAMLET. 

The  three  numbers  used  designate,  respectively,  the  Act,  Scene,  and  Line. 
F.  stands  for  First  Folio,  C.  for  "  Cambridge  "  edition. 

Where  readings  of  the  First  Folio  and  of  the  "  Cambridge  "  are  given  with- 
out remarks,  it  will  be  understood  that  the  former  are  considered  obviously 
preferable. 

i.  i.  30.  Sit  downe  a-while,  And  let  vs  F.  Sit  down  awhile; 
And  let  us  C.  The  meaning  is,  Sit  down  and  let  us  etc. 

1.1.40.     Looke  where  it  comes  againe.  F.    Look,  where  etc.  C. 

i.  i.  49.  By  Heauen  I  charge  thee  speake.  F.  by  heaven  I 
charge  thee,  speak  !  C.  "  speak  "  is  an  infinitive  after  "  charge," 
and  not  an  imperative  as  the  C.  makes  it  by  the  use  of  the 


JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  323 

comma.  In  line  51,  it  is  an  imperative,  and  is  preceded  in  F. 
by  a  comma. 

i.  i.  53.  How  now  Horatio?  You  tremble  &  look  pale:  F. 
How  now,  Horatio  !  etc.  C.  The  ?  of  the  F.  represents  the  elo- 
cution better ;  "  Horatio  "  should  be  uttered  with  an  unequal  up- 
ward wave,  expressing  the  triumph  of  the  speaker  in  the  confirma- 
tion of  his  report  of  the  appearance  of  the  ghost. 

i.  i.  70.  Good  now  sit  downe,  &  tell  me  he  that  knowes  F. 
Good  now,  sit  down,  etc.  C.  "  Good  "  may  be  a  vocative,  and 
"now"  may  belong  to  "sit  down."  But  see  Abbott,  §  13. 

i.  2.  ii.  With  one  Auspicious,  and  one  Dropping  eye,  F. 
With  an  auspicious  and  a  dropping  eye,  C. 

i.  2.  50.     Dread  my  Lord,  F.     My  dread  lord,  C. 

i.  2.  76.  Seemes  Madam?  F.  Seems,  madam  !  C.  The  ? 
represents  the  elocution  again  better  than  the  ! 

i.  2.  85.  passeth  show;  F.  passes  show;  C.  The  older  form 
not  only  suits  the  tone  of  the  passage  better,  but  the  two  s's  and 
the  sh  in  "passes  show"  coming  together  are  very  cacophonous. 

i.  2.  127.  the  Heauens  shall  bruite  againe,  F.  the  heaven 
etc.  C.  The  plural  form  is  the  better  here. 

i.  2.  132.  O  God,  O  God  !  F.  O  God  !  God  !  C.  The 
verse  doesn't  scan  so  well  in  the  C.  In  the  F.,  the  ending  er  of 
"slaughter"  should  be  read  as  an  internal  extra  syllable:  His 
can  |  non  'gainst  |  Selfe-slaught  |  er.  |  O  God,  |  O  God  !  |  And 
every  reader  would  feel  the  want  of  the  second  "O  "  on  which  to 
dwell  before  uttering  "  God  "  with  a  strong  aspiration. 

i.  2.  135.  Fie  on't?  Oh  fie,  fie,  F.  Fie  on't !  ah  fie!  C. 
"  ah  "  doesn't  express  the  feeling  of  the  speaker  so  well. 

i.  2.  135.  'tis  an  vnweeded  Garden  That  growes  to  Seed:  F. 
'tis  an  unweeded  garden,  That  grows  to  seed :  C.  There  should 
be  no  comma  after  "  garden,"  as  the  relative  clause  is  not  used 
simply  as  an  additional  characterization  of  an  unweeded  garden, 
but  as  an  inseparable  part  of  the  whole  characterization  —  an  im- 
portant distinction  that  should  be  made  in  pointing. 

i.  2.  153.     Within  a  Moneth?    Ere  yet  the  salt  etc.  F.    Within 


324  JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

a  month;  Ere  yet  the  salt  etc.  C.  The  meaning  is,  Within  a 
month  [did  I  say]  ?  [Yea]  Ere  yet  etc. 

i.  2.  159.  But  breake  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue.  F. 
But  break,  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue  !  C.  "  break  "  is 
a  subjunctive,  not  an  imperative,  as  it  is  made  by  the  C.  punctua- 
tion, and  "heart "  is  a  subject,  not  a  vocative. 

i.  2.  170.  I  would  not  haue  your  Enemy  say  so ;  F.  I  would 
not  hear  your  enemy  say  so,  C.  cet.  par.,  "  have  "  is  more  euphoni- 
ous than  "hear,"  by  reason  of  "  ear  "  in  next  line,  Nor  shall  you 
doe  mine  eare  that  violence, 

i.  2.  171.     mine  eare  F.     my  ear  C. 

i.  2.  177.  I  pray  thee  doe  not  mock  me  (fellow  Student)  F. 
I  prethee,  etc.  C.  The  F.  reading  suits  the  required  deliberateness 
of  the  expression  better.  There  is  an  earnest  entreaty  meant. 

i.  2.  183.  Ere  I  had  euer  scene  that  day  Horatio.  F.  Or  ever 
I  had  seen  etc.  C.  The  F.  reading  is  better  again  for  the  preced- 
ing reason. 

i.  2.  191.  The  King  my  Father?  F.  The  king  my  father  !  C. 
This  should  be  uttered  with  an  inquiring  wonder,  which  is  better 
expressed  by  the  ? 

1.2.  204.  Whilst  they  bestil'd  Almost  to  Telly  F.  whilst  they, 
distilPd  Almost  to  jelly  C.  "  bestil'd  "  seems  to  be  used  as  a  strong 
form  of  '  still'd,"  as  the  next  line,  "  Stand  dumbe  and  speake  not 
to  him,"  shows.  I  get  no  meaning  out  of  the  other  word. 

i.  2,  232.  Pale,  or  red?  F.  Pale  or  red?  C.  The  absence  of 
the  comma  in  the  C.  mars  the  meaning.  Hamlet  must  be  sup- 
posed to  utter  "  Pale  "  as  a  thing  of  course,  paleness  being  the 
conventional  idea  attached  to  a  ghost.  The  word  should  be 
uttered  with  a  falling  inflection,  and  then  "  or  red  "  added,  after 
a  pause,  with  a  certain  anxious  impatience  :  Pale,  was  he  ?  or  red ; 
how  was  it?  In  other  words,  he  hasn't  the  two  ideas,  "  pale  "  and 
"red"  in  his  mind  at  once ;  when  he  first  speaks,  he  has  only  that 
of  "  Pale  "  upon  which  his  voice  rests.  He  then  adds,  somewhat 
impatiently,  "or  red?"  A  semicolon  would  mark  the  division 
better  than  a  comma. 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  325 

i.  2.  239.  His  Beard  was  grisly?  no.  F.  His  beard  was  griz- 
zled? no?  C.  Hamlet  is  subjecting  his  friends  to  a  searching 
examination,  and  when  he  asks  the  question,  "His  Beard  was 
grisly?"  he  adds,  with  decision,  "no,"  as  though  he  had  caught 
them  on  this  point.  "  no  "  should  be  read  with  a  strong  down- 
ward inflection.  To  show  that  he  has  not  been  caught,  Horatio 
gives  a  specific  reply,  "  It  was  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life,  A 
sable  silvered." 

i.  2.  241.  He  watch  to  Night;  F.  I  will  watch  to-night;  C. 
The  "  I "  is  strongly  emphatic  here,  and  it  can  be  better  made 
so  in  "I'll"  than  in  "I  will."  It  seems,  too,  that  the  abbre- 
viated form  suits  better  Hamlet's  off-hand  mode  of  speech  with 
his  friends. 

i.  2.  242.     I  warrant  you  it  will.  F.     I  warrant  it  will.  C. 

i.  2.  252.  AIL  Our  duty  to  your  Honour.  Ham.  Your  loue, 
as  mine  to  you  :  F.  Your  loves,  etc.  C.  "  loue  "  is  better,  being 
used  as  opposed  to  "  duty :  "  "  love  "  should  be  uttered  with  a 
slow  and  deliberate  downward  wave :  your  love,  I  ask ;  I  don't 
wish  you  to  act  from  a  sense  of  duty  alone,  I  ask  your  love  in  the 
matter.  The  old  Quarto  of  1603  throws  light  on  the  true  mean- 
ing :  "  Our  duties  to  your  honor.  Ham.  O  your  loues,  your 
loues,"  There  is  something  similar  in  the  i62d  and  i63d  lines  of 
this  scene  :  Hor.  The  same  my  Lord,  And  your  poore  Seruant 
euer.  Ham.  Sir  my  good  friend,  He  change  that  name  with  you  : 
F.  The  italics  are  mine.  Hamlet,  though  always  princely,  is 
impatient  of  certain  conventional  courtesies. 

i.  2.  254.  My  Fathers  Spirit  in  Armes?  F.  My  father's  spirit 
in  arms  !  C.  Here  the  ?  is  again  better  than  the  !  "Arms  "  should 
be  uttered  with  a  strong  interrogative  intonation,  expressive  of  an 
inquiring  wonder. 

i.  2.  257.  foule  deeds  will  rise,  Though  all  the  earth  orewhelm 
them  to  mens  eies.  F.  foul  deeds  will  rise,  Though  all  the  earth 
o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes.  C.  It  is  questionable  as  to 
whether  the  phrase,  "  to  men's  eyes,"  should  be  connected  with 
"rise"  in  the  preceding  verse,  or  with  "o'erwhelm."  A  reader 


326  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

finds  it  awkward  to  connect  it  with  "rise."  The  omission  of  the 
comma  in  the  F.  after  "  them,  "  thus  connecting  "  to  men's  eyes  " 
with  "  o'erwhelm,"  makes  equally  good  sense  and  adapts  the  con- 
struction of  the  sentence  better  to  its  vocal  expression. 

i.  3.  i.  My  necessaries  are  imbark't ;  F.  embark'd  :  C.  There 
is  no  authority  in  the  old  editions  for  "  embark'd."  The  2d,  3d, 
and  4th  Quartos  read  "inbark't; "  the  5th  and  6th,  imbark't;  the 
ist  and  2d  Folios,  "imbark't,"  the  3d  and  4th,  "imbark'd."  As 
applied  to  things,  "imbark't"  or  "inbark't"  seems  preferable  to 
"  embark'd." 

i.  3.  5.  For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  fauours,  F.  fa- 
vour, C. 

i.  3.  8.     Froward,  not  permanent;  F.     Forward,  C. 

i.  3.  10.  No  more  but  so.  F.  No  more  but  so?  C.  Here 
the  C.  follows  Rowe's  pointing.  The  Quartos  and  Folios  all  have 
a  period.  This  speech  of  Ophelia  is  certainly  meant  to  express 
her  submissiveness  to  her  brother's  opinion  and  not  to  question 
the  correctness  of  it. 

i.  3.  12.  his  Temple  F.  this  temple  C.  "his,"  in  the  F. 
stands  for  "  nature  :  "  as  nature's  temple  grows,  the  service  within 
widens.  There  is  a  metaphor  implied.  Nature  does  not  grow 
only  in  thews  and  bulk,  but  as  nature's  temple  waxes  in  thews 
and  bulk,  the  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul  grows  wide 
withal. 

i.  3.  21.  The  sanctity  and  health  of  the  weole  State.  F.  The 
safety  and  health  of  this  whole  state,  C.  "sanctity"  is  better 
than  "safety,"  and  "the"  than  "this,"  "state"  being  used  ab- 
stractly. 

i.  3.  34.  And  keepe  within  the  reare  of  your  Affection;  F. 
And  keep  you  in  the  rear  of  your  affection,  C.  "within"  as 
opposed  to  "  without,"  or  outside  of. 

i.  3.  40.     the  buttons  F.     their  buttons  C. 

i.  3.46.    watchmen  F.    watchman  C.    The  plural  seems  better 
as  referring  to  the  several  particulars  of  Laertes's  advice. 
-  T-  3-  ••65-     Yet  heere  Laertes  ?  F.     Yet  here,  Laertes  !  C.     The 


JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  327 

?  is  better.  The  speech  should  be  uttered  to  express  an  inquiring 
surprise. 

i.  3.  57.  The  winde  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  saile,  And 
you  are  staid  for  there  :  my  blessing  with  you ;  F.  And  you  are 
Btay'd  for.  There  ;  my  blessing  with  thee  !  C.  The  punctuation 
of  the  C.  is  Theobald's,  who  in  accordance  with  his  understanding 
of  "there,"  added  the  stage  direction,  "Laying  his  hand  on 
Laertes's  head."  But  "  there  "  certainly  means  at  the  port,  where 
the  ship  is  all  ready  to  sail,  and  the  attendants  are  waiting  for  him. 
In  the  83d  line,  Polonius  says  :  "  The  time  inuites  you,  goe,  your 
seruants  tend." 

i.  3.  59.     See  thou  Character.  F.     Look  thou  character.  C. 

1.  3.  62.     The    friends   thou   hast,   and   their   adoption   tride, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  Soule,  with  hoopes  of  Steele  :  F.     Those 
friends  thou  hast,  C.     The  use  of  "  them  "  in  next  verse,  makes 
"The"  preferable  to  "Those"  which  serves  to  strengthen  the 
pleonasm. 

2.  3.  68.     thine  eare  ;  F.     thy  ear,  C. 

i.  3.  1 06.  That  you  haue  tane  his  tenders  for  true  pay,  F. 
these  tenders  C.  "  his  "  is  decidedly  better  in  the  connection. 

i.  3.  109.  Tender  your  selfe  more  dearly ;  Or  not  to  crack  the 
winde  of  the  poore  Phrase,  Roaming  it  thus,  you'l  tender  me  a 
foole.  F.  Running  it  thus  —  C.  The  C.  reading  is  after  Dyce 
(Collier  conj.).  It  is  not  authorized  by  any  of  the  Quartos,  all 
of  which  read  "Wrong,"  or  of  the  Folios,  all  reading  "Roaming," 
which  is  probably  right,  Polonius  having  reference  to  his  varying 
the  application  of  the  word  "  tender." 

i.  3.  120.  For  this  time  Daughter,  Be  somewhat  scanter  of 
your  Maiden  presence  ;  F.  From  this  time  be  something  scanter, 
etc.  C.  It  may  be  that  "  For  this  "  =  For[th]  this,  the  final 
th  of  "  Forth "  being  absorbed,  in  pronounciation,  in  the  initial 
th  of  "this,"  a  kind  of  absorption  not  unfrequent  in  Shake- 
speare. The  F.  verse,  moreover,  scans  better :  You  must  |  not 
take  |  for  fire.  |  For  this  |  time  Daught  |  er,  In  the  scanning  of 
the  C.  verse,  "  fire  "  must  be  made  dissyllabic,  and  "  From  "  a 


328  JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

heavy  syllable :    You   must  |  not   take  |  for  fi  |  re.      From  |  this 
time.     It  will  be  observed,  too,  that  the  speech  in  which  the  verse 
occurs,  is  characterized  by  the  double  endings,  and  the  F.  verse 
is  more  in  keeping  therewith, 
i.  3.  127-131. 

' '  Doe  not  beleeue  his  vowes ;  for  they  are  Breakers, 
Not  of  the  eye,  which  their  Inuestments  show : 
But  meere  implorators  of  vnholy  Sutes, 
Breathing  like  sanctified  and  pious  bonds, 
The  better  to  beguile."    F. 

Not  of  that  dye  which  their  investments  show,  C.  The  reading 
of  the  C.  is  after  the  6th  Quarto,  1637.  The  2d,  3d,  4th,  and 
5th,  Quartos  read  "that  die,"  the  Folios,  "the  eye,"  which  is 
most  probably  right,  "  eye  "  being  used,  by  metonymy,  for  "  as- 
pect," "  hue,"  "  shade  of  colour." 

i.  3.  130.  Breathing  like  sanctified  and  pious  bawds,  C.  after 
Pope,  ed.  2  (Theobald).  The  Quartos  and  Folios  all  agree  in 
reading  "bonds,"  which  makes  good  sense.  The  general  term 
"  bonds,"  suggested,  no  doubt,  by  "  brokers,"  is  used  for  the  more 
special  term,  "  vows."  "  Breathing "  refers  back  to  "they,"  stand- 
ing for  "vows"  ;  "bonds,"  involving  the  idea  of  "  vows,"  should 
not  receive  the  stress,  in  reading,  which  should  be  given  to 
"  pious." 

i.  4.  5.  Indeed  I  heard  it  not :  then  it  drawes  neere  the  sea- 
son, Wherein  the  Spirit  held  his  wont  to  walke.  F.  Indeed?  I 
heard  it  not :  it  then  etc.  C.  The  ?  of  the  C.  is  after  Capell ; 
the  2d,  3d,  4th,  and  5th,  Quartos  read  "Indeed;  I"  the  ist 
Quarto  and  all  the  Folios,  "  Indeed  I  "  the  6th  Quarto,  "  Indeed, 
I  "  The  use  of  the  ?  after  "  Indeed  "  imports  an  inquiring  sur- 
prise which  is  not  intended. 

i.  4.  17-38.  Omitted  in  F.  The  last  three  lines  of  this  pas- 
sage, which  all  the  commentators  have  regarded  as  corrupt,  the 
editors  of  the  C.  have  left  unaltered  "  because,"  as  they  say,  Note 
VI.,  "none  of  the  conjectures  proposed  appear  to  be  satisfactory." 


JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  329 

"  the  dram  of  eale 

Doth  all  the  noble  substance  of  a  doubt 
To  his  own  scandal." 

"  eale,"  whether  it  be  a  corrupt  form  of  "  ill "  or  "  evil,"  or  what- 
ever it  be,  stands,  as  a  general  term,  for  "  some  vicious  mole  in 
nature,"  the  "  habit  that  too  much  o'er-leavens  the  form  of  plausive 
manners,"  the  "  one  defect,"  just  alluded  to  by  Hamlet.  All  the 
difficulty  of  the  passage  is  removed,  I  think,  by  understanding 
u  noble,"  not  as  an  adjective,  as  all  the  commentators  have  under- 
stood it,  qualifying  "  substance,"  but  as  a  noun  opposed  to  "  eale," 
and  the  object  of  "  substance,"  a  verb  of  which  "  doth  "  is  aux- 
iliary. Thus  :  "  the  dram  of  eale  doth  all  the  noble,  substance 
of"  [*>.,  "with,"  a  sense  common  in  the  English  of  the  time,]  "a 
doubt  "  [which  works]  "  to  his  own  scandal."  "  Substance  "  is 
used  in  the  sense  of  "  imbue  with  a  certain  essence  "  ;  "  his  "  is  a 
neuter  genitive,  standing  for  "  noble,"  and  =  "  its."  The  dram  of 
ill  transubstantiates  the  noble,  essences  it  to  its  own  scandal.  In 
regard  to  the  uses  of  "  of  "  and  "  to,"  see  Abbott's  "  Shakespearian 
Grammar,"  rev.  and  enl.  ed.,  §§  171  and  186. 

The  use  of  "  substance,"  in  the  sense  of  "  essence,"  was,  of 
course,  sufficiently  common,  and  had  been  for  more  than  two  cen- 
turies, to  justify  the  interpretation  given.  In  Macbeth,  i.  5.  48, 
we  have  "sightless  substances "  =  " invisible  essences,"  "sight- 
less "  being  used  objectively.  "  Being  of  one  substance  with  the 
Father."  —  "Book  of  Common  Prayer."  Chaucer,  in  "The  Pro- 
loge  of  Nonne  Prestes  Tale"  (1.  14,809  of  Tyrwhitt's  edition,  1. 
16,289  of  Wright's)  uses  the  word  to  express  the  essential  charac- 
ter or  nature  of  a  man.  The  Host  objects  to  the  Monk's  Tale,  as 
being  too  dull  for  the  occasion ;  and,  that  the  fault  may  not  be 
thought  to  lie  in  himself,  says, 

"  And  wel  I  wot  the  substance  is  in  me, 
If  eny  thing  schal  wel  reported  be." 

That  is,  I  am  so  substanced,  so  constituted,  so  tempered,  such  is 
my  cast  of  spirit,  that  I  can  appreciate  and  enjoy,  as  well  as  the 


330  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET, 

next  man,  a  good  story  well  told.  Whether  "  substance  "  can  ^e 
found,  in  this  sense,  as  a  verb,  matters  not.  The  free  functional 
application  of  words  which  characterized  the  Elizabethan  .English, 
allowed,  as  every  English  scholar  knows,  of  the  use  of  any  noun, 
adjective,  or  neuter  verb,  as  an  active  verb.*  See  Abbott's 
"  Shakespearian  Grammar." 

i.  4.  42.  Be  thy  euents  wicked  or  charitable,  F.  Be  thy  in- 
tents C.  "  events  "  =  issues.  The  meaning  is,  not  that  Hamlet 
attributes  any  intents  to  the  ghost,  but  that  the  ghost's  appearance 
is  to  him  the  prognostic  of  certain  issues  or  events  ;  "  thy  "  is  the 
personal,  and  not  the  possessive  adjective,  pronoun;  in  other 
words,  it  is  used  objectively. 

i.  4.  63.     then  will  I  follow  it.  F.     then  I  will  C. 

i.  4.  78.  It  wafts  me  still :  F.  It  waves  me  still.  C.  "Whom 
Fortune  with  her  luory  hand  wafts  to  her,"  Timon  of  Athens, 
i.  i.  73. 

i.  4.  80.     Hold  off  your  hand.  F.     hands.  C. 

i.  4.  84.  Still  am  I  cal'd?  F.  Still  am  I  call'd  :  C.  The  ? 
is  better.  Am  I  still  called  and  do  I  trifle  here?  unhand  me, 
gentlemen ;  By  heaven,  I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me. 

i.  5.  22.     list  Hamlet,  oh  list,  F.     List,  list,  O,  list !  C. 

j.  5.  26.     Murther?  F.     Murder!  C. 

i.  5.  35  and  59.     mine  Orchard,  F.     my  orchard,  C. 

1.5.  40.  O  my  Propheticke  soule  :  mine  Vncle?  F.  my  uncle  ! 
C.  The  ?  better  represents  the  proper  elocution. 

*•  5-  75-  Of  Life,  of  Crowne,  and  Queene  at  once  dispatcht; 
F.  Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  C. 

i.  5.  80.  Oh  horrible,  Oh  horrible,  most  horrible  :  F.  O,  hor- 
rible !  O,  horrible  !  most  horrible  !  C.  The  "  Cambridge  "  editors 
make  no  distinction  between  the  emotional  interjection,  "  Oh,"  and 
the  "  O  "  vocative,  but  print  both  "  O."  It  can  be  seen,  I  think, 
that  the  distinction  was  intended  to  be  made  in  the  F. ;  the  use 


*  This  interpretation  I  communicated,  in  the  main,  to  "  Notes  and  Queries," 
some  years  ago.  But  I  did  not  then  recognize  an  important  element  in  it  that 
the  pronoun  "  his  "  is  a  neuter  genitive,  standing  for  "  noble  "  used  as  a  noun. 


JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  331 

of  "  Oh  "  and  "  O  "  is,  however,  quite  irregular  there.  But  in  a 
modernized  text,  consistency  requires  that  the  distinction  should 
be  made,  as  it  is  one  that  is  observed  in  modern  orthography. 
It  is  a  distinction,  too,  not  merely  factitious,  as  might  be  sup- 
posed, but  based  on  good  ground.  "There  is  a  difference  be- 
tween '  O  sir  ! '  '  O  King  ! '  and  <  Oh  !  sir,'  <  Oh  !  Lord,'  both  in 
sense  and  pronunciation.  As  to  the  sense,  the  O  prefixed  merely 
imparts  to  the  title  a  vocative  effect ;  while  the  Oh  conveys 
some  particular  sentiment,  as  of  appeal,  entreaty,  expostulation, 
or  some  other.  And  as  to  the  sound,  the  O  is  enclitic ;  *  that  is 
to  say,  it  has  no  accent  of  its  own,  but  is  pronounced  with  the 
word  to  which  it  is  attached,  as  if  it  were  its  unaccented  first  syl- 
lable. The  term  Enclitic  signifies  'reclining  on,'  and  so  the 
interjection  O  in  '  O  Lord '  reclines  on  the  support  afforded  to 
it  by  the  accentual  elevation  of  the  word  '  Lord.'  So  that  <  O 
Lord  '  is  pronounced  like  such  a  dissyllable  as  alight,  alike,  away  ; 
in  which  words  the  metrical  stroke  could  never  fall  on  the  first 
syllable.  Oh  !  on  the  contrary,  is  one  of  the  fullest  of  monosylla- 
bles, and  it  would  be  hard  to  place  it  in  a  verse  except  with  the 
stress  upon  it.  The  example  from  Wordsworth  illustrates  this. 

"  *  But  she  is  in  her  grave,  —  and  oh 

The  difference  to  me  ! '  " 
—  Earle's  "  Philology  of  the  English  Tongue,"  2d  ed.  pp.  191-92. 

i.  5.  91.  Adue,  adue,  Hamlet :  remember  me.  F.  Adieu, 
adieu,  adieu  !  remember  me.  C.  The  addressing  his  son  by  name 
at  the  conclusion  of  his  speech  is  more  effective  from  its  familiarity, 
than  the  third  repetition  of  "  adieu." 

i.  5.  95  and  97.     Remember  thee?  F.     Remember  thee  !  C. 

i.  5.  114-116.  Hor.  Heauen  secure  him.  Mar.  So  be  it. 
Hor.  Illo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord.  Ham.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy;  come 
bird,  come.  F. 

Hor.  Heaven  secure  him  !  Ham.  So  be  it !  Mar.  Illo,  ho, 
ho,  my  lord  !  Ham.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy  !  come,  bird,  come.  C. 


*  "  Proclitic  "  would  be  the  better  word  here. 


332  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

The  disposition  of  the  speeches  in  the  F.  is  the  best.  Marcellus 
seconds  Horatio's  "  Heaven  secure  him,"  with  his  "  So  be  it  " ; 
Horatio,  then,  as  Hamlet's  bosom  friend,  uses  the  falconer's  call, 
which  would  have  been  too  familiar  on  the  part  of  Marcellus,  and 
Hamlet,  in  his  excitement,  responds  in  the  same  language. 

i.  5.  119.  Ham.  No  you'l  reueale  it.  F.  No;  you  will  reveal 
it.  C.  The  more  off-hand  "  you'll  "  is  preferable  here. 

i.  5.  129.     desires  F.     desire  C. 

i.  5.  130.     For  euery  man  ha's  businesse  F.     hath  C. 

i.  5.  135-6.  Hor.  There's  no  offence  my  Lord.  Ham.  Yes, 
by  Saint  Patricke,  but  there  is  my  Lord,  F.  .  .  .  but  there  is, 
Horatio,  C.  The  "  my  Lord  "  in  Hamlet's  speech  is  a  retort  to 
the  "my  Lord"  in  Horatio's  speech,  and  it  has  an  effect  which 
is  lost  in  the  C.  reading ;  "  is  "  should  receive  a  strong  accent, 
"  my  Lord  "  being  uttered  enclitically. 

i.  5.  137.  And  much  offence  too,  touching  this  Vision  heere  : 
It  is  an  honest  Ghost,  that  let  me  tell  you  :  F.  And  much  offence 
too.  Touching  this  vision  here,  It  is  an  honest  ghost,  that  let  me 
tell  you  :  C. 

The  punctuation  of  the  C.,  a  period  after  "  too,"  has  no  Q.  nor 
F.  authority,  all  the  editions  having  a  comma  after  "  too,"  except 
the  6th  Quarto,  which  has  a  colon.  Horatio,  of  course,  means 
that  he  intended  no  offence  to  Hamlet,  in  saying  "  These  are  but 
wild  and  hurling  words,  my  Lord  "  ;  and  Hamlet,  in  his  reply,  flies 
off,  and  speaks  with  reference  to  the  offence  or  wrong  which,  he 
has  just  learned,  has  been  done  to  his  father :  "  Yes,  by  Saint 
Patrick?,  but  there  is  my  Lord,  And  much  offence  too,  touching 
this  Vision  heere  :  "  he  then  adds,  "  It  is  an  honest  Ghost,  that 
let  me  tell  you  "  :  but  more  than  that  he'll  not  tell :  "  For  your 
desire  to  know  what  is  betweene  vs,  O'remaster't  as  you  may." 

i.  5.  154.  Neuer  to  speake  of  this  that  you  haue  scene. 
Sweare  by  my  sword.  F.  The  C.  has  a  comma  after  "seen," 
thus  subordinating  the  clause,  "Never  .  .  .  seen,"  to  "  swear  by 
my  sword."  In  the  first  place  such  an  inversion  of  the  construc- 
tion is  awkward ;  and  in  the  second  place,  the  speech  doesn't 
hitch  on  to  the  preceding  speech  so  well.  Horatio  asks  Hamlet 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  333 

to  propose  the  oath,  which  he  does,  namely,  "  Never  to  speak  of 
this  that  you  have  seen,"  and  then,  having  proposed  the  oath,  he 
tells  them  to  swear  by  his  sword,  which  is  additional. 

1.5.  157-160.  "  Come  hither  Gentlemen,  And  lay  your  hands 
againe  vpon  my  sword,  Neuer  to  speake  of  this  that  you  haue 
heard  :  Sweare  by  my  Sword."  F.  "  Come  hither,  gentlemen,  And 
lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword  :  Never  to  speak  of  this  that 
you  have  heard,  Swear  by  my  sword."  C.  Here  the  C.  construes 
again,  as  in  line  154,  the  clause  "  Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you 
have  heard,"  with  "  Swear  by  my  sword."  But  the  true  meaning 
is  certainly  that  indicated  by  the  punctuation  of  the  F. :  "  lay 
your  hands  again  upon  my  sword,  never  to  speak  of  this  that  you 
have  heard."  The  "  Swear  by  my  sword  "  is  but  a  repetition  of 
the  same  idea. 

i.  5.  162.  "Well  said  old  Mole,  can'st  worke  i'  th'  ground  so 
fast?"  F.  "Well  said,  old  Mole!  canst  work  i'  the  earth  so 
fast?  "  C.  "  ground  "  seems  preferable  with  reference  to  "  mole." 

i.  5.  167.  "There  are  more  things  in  Heauen  and  Earth, 
Horatio,  Then  are  dream't  of  in  our  Philosophy  "  F.  your  phi- 
losophy. C.  Hamlet  and  Horatio  had  been  fellow- students  at  the 
University ;  this  may  explain  the  use  of  "  our."  Or  it  would  be 
better,  perhaps,  to  understand  Hamlet  as  using  it  in  the  general 
sense  of  human  philosophy,  which  is  limited  in  its  scope.  Why 
he  should  say  "your,"  does  not  appear;  but  it  may  be  ethical. 

i.  5.  173.  That  you  at  such  time  seeing  me,  F.  That  you, 
at  such  times  seeing  me,  C.  "  time  "  suits  the  context  better, 
and  "such  time  seeing"  is  less  harsh  than  " such  time.?  seeing." 

i.  5.  174.  neuer  shall  With  Armes  encombred  thus,  or  thus, 
head  shake  ;  F.  never  shall,  With  arms  encumber' d  thus,  or  this 
head-shake,  C.  The  Quartos  1-5  have  "this  head  shake."  The 
hyphen  of  the  C.  is  after  Theobald ;  the  6th  Quarto  reads  "  head 
thus  shak't."  The  construction  of  the  C.  reading  is  imperfect, 
"  shall "  having  no  verb  connected  with  it ;  according  to  the  F., 
"  shake  "  is  a  verb,  having  "  shall  "  as  its  auxiliary  :  never  shall, 
with  arms  encumbered  thus,  or  thus,  (suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,)  head  shake. 


334  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

2.  i.  70.  Good  my  Lord.  F.  Good  my  lord  !  C.  after  Dyce. 
The  Quartos  and  Folios  all  have  a  period  after  "Lord."  This 
speech  seems  to  express  the  simple  assent  of  Reynaldo  to  what 
Polonius  has  said.  The  !  is  not  required.  To  the  next  item  of 
Polonius's  advice,  he  replies,  "  I  shall  my  Lord "  ;  and  to  the 
next,  "Well,  my  Lord." 

2.  i.  99.     helpe;  F.     helps,  C. 

2.  2.  5.     so  I  call  it,  F.     so  call  it,  C. 

2.  2.  10.     I  cannot  deeme  of.  F.     I  cannot  dream  of:  C. 

2.  2.  12.  so  Neighbour'd  to  his  youth,  and  humour,  F.  so 
neighbour'd  to  his  youth  and  haviour,  C.  More  force  in  the  F. 
word  "  humour  "  which  must  be  taken  in  its  earlier  sense  of  "  tem- 
per of  mind,"  "  disposition."  „ 

2.  2.  1 6.     Occasions  F.     occasion  C. 

2.  2.  43.  Assure  you,  my  good  Liege,  F.  I  assure  my  good 
liege,  C.  Feeble. 

2.  2.  in,  112.  but  you  shall  heare  these  in  her  excellent  white 
bosome,  these.  F.  but  you  shall  hear.  Thus  :  "  In  her  excellent 
white  bosom,  these,  &c."  C.  It  would  seem  that  the  first  "  these  " 
in  the  F.  is  right,  the  second  being  a  mere  repetition  for  emphasis  ; 
so  that  all  that  is  wanting  in  the  F.  is  a  colon  after  "heare." 
"  These  in  her  excellent  white  bosom,  these  :  "  The  expression 
is  evidently  directive  or  optative,  and  given  as  an  introduction  to 
"  Doubt  thou,  the  Starres  are  fire"  etc.  There  is  a  studied  odd- 
ness  in  the  letter,  as  is  shown  by  the  subscription,  "  whilst  this 
Machine  is  to  him,  Hamlet." 

2.  2.  151.  Do  you  thinke  'tis  this?  F.  Do  you  think  this?  C. 
The  F.  reading  suits  better  what  precedes,  and  the  reply  of  the 
queen  that  follows,  "  It  may  be  very  likely." 

2.  2.  173.  Excellent,  excellent  well:  y'are  a  Fishmonger.  F. 
Excellent  well ;  you  are  a  fishmonger.  C.  The  repetition  of 
"excellent"  in  the  F.  seems  to  express  better  the  impatient, 
don't- trouble- me  mood  of  the  speaker.  In  5.  2.  173.  when  the 
obsequious  courtier,  Osric,  whom  he  despises,  takes  leave  of  him, 
there  is  a  repetition  of  "yours"  with  the  same  contemptuous 


JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  335 

coloring:  "Osr.  I  commend  my  duty  to  your  Lordship.  Ham. 
Yours,  yours ; "  [Exit  Osric.  Then  turning  to  Horatio,~\  "  he 
does  well  to  commend  it  himself,  there  are  no  tongues  else 
for's  turn." 

2.  2.  175.     Honest,  my  Lord?  F.     Honest,  my  lord  !  C. 

2.  2.  1 80,  181.  Ham.  For  if  the  Sun  breed  Magots  in  a  dead 

dogge,  being  a  good  kissing  Carrion Haue  you  a  daughter  ? 

F.  Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  being  a 
god  kissing  carrion  —  Have  you  a  daughter?  C. 

The  C.  gives  the  following  collation  of  readings  (Qq  standing 
for  the  Quartos  but  not  including  the  ist  Q.,  1603,  Ff,  the  Folios)  : 

1 80.  Ham.]     Ham.    [reads].     Staunton. 

181.  god  kissing  carrion\     Hanmer     (Warburton).    good  kiss- 
ing carrion    Qq   Ff.     god-kissing  carrion    Malone    conj.    good, 
kissing  carrion  Whiter  conj.   carrion-kissing  god  Mitford    conj. 
carrion  —  ]  Ff.     carrion.    Qq. 

Dyce's  note  :  P.  136  (57)  "For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in 
a  dead  dog,  being  a  good  kissing  carrion" 

This  passage  is  not  in  the  quarto  1603.  —  The  other  old  eds. 

have  " being  a  good  kissing  carrion"  —  I  give  Warburton's 

emendation,  which,  if  over-praised  by  Johnson,  (who  called  it  a 
"noble  "  one,)  at  least  has  the  merit  of  conveying  something  like 
a  meaning.  —  That  not  even  a  tolerable  sense  can  be  tortured  out 
of  the  original  reading,  we  have  proof  positive  in  the  various  expla- 
nations of  it  by  Whiter,  Coleridge,  Caldecott,  Mr.  Knight,  and 
Delius.  ("The  carrion,"  says  Mr.  Knight  with  the  utmost  gravity, 
"  the  carrion  is  good  at  kissing  —  ready  to  return  the  kiss  of  the 
sun  —  '  Common  kissing  Titan,'  and  in  the  bitterness  of  his  satire 
Hamlet  associates  the  idea  with  the  daughter  of  Polonius.  Mr. 
Whiter,  however,  considers  that  good,  the  original  reading,  is  cor- 
rect; but  that  the  poet  uses  the  word  as  a  substantive the 

GOOD  principle  in  the  fecundity  of  the  earth.  In  that  case  we 
should  read  'being  a  good,  kissing  carrion.'" Equally  out- 
rageous in  absurdity  is  the  interpretation  of  Delius,  which  (trans- 
lated for  me  by  Mr.  Robson)  runs  thus  :  "  Hamlet  calls  the  dog, 


336  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

in  which  the  sun  breeds  maggots,  a  good,  kissing  carrion ;  allud- 
ing to  the  confiding,  fawning  manner  of  the  dog  towards  his 
master.  If  the  sun  breeds  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  which  during 
its  lifetime  was  so  attached, — what,  says  Hamlet,  in  his  bitter 
distrust  [Misstrauen],  and  to  annoy  Polonius,  might  not  the  sun 
breed  in  the  equally  tender  Ophelia,  who  ought  therefore  not  to 
expose  herself  to  the  sun.") — "The  Works  of  William  Shake- 
speare. The  text  revised  by  the  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce.  In  nine 
Volumes.  Vol.  VII.  Second  edition.  London:  1868."  p.  223. 

In  "  The  Shakespeare  Society's  Papers.  Vol.  II.  London : 
printed  for  the  Shakespeare  Society.  1845."  ART.  VII.  —  Con- 
jectures on  some  of  the  corrupt  or  obscure  passages  of  Shake- 
speare. By  Barren  Field,  Esq.,  pp.  41,  42,  the  author  remarks : 

"  And  we  are  indebted  to  Bishop  Warburton,  the  most  arbitrary, 
but  the  most  sagacious  of  critics,  ...  for  reading  in  '  Hamlet,' 
'  If  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  being  a  6W-kissing  car- 
rion,' instead  of  a  '  Good]  as  the  old  copies  have  it :  '  a  noble 
emendation  (Dr.  Johnson  calls  it)  which  almost  sets  the  critic  on 
a  level  with  the  author.' " 

In  a  foot-note  he  adds  (p.  42)  : 

"  Mr.  Collier  and  Mr.  Knight  retain  '  good,'  and  understand  the 
dead  dog  to  be  the  good  kissing  carrion ;  but  this  seems  to  me 
somewhat  too  much  meaning  for  the  words  to  be  licensed  to  carry. 
That  the  sun  is  the  osculist,  and  not  the  dog,  is  confirmed  by  the 
following  passage  from  i  Hen.  IV.  2.  4.  [113]  :  'Didst  thou 
never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish  of  butter  ? '  and  by  the  phrase,  '  com- 
mon-kissing Titan,'  in  Cymbeline,  3.  4.  [164]." 

One  thing  can  with  certainty  be  assumed  at  the  outset,  namely, 
that  the  Sun,  "common-kissing  Titan,"  is  the  "osculist,"  to  use 
Mr.  Field's  word,  and  not  the  carrion  dog ;  "  and  now  remains 
that  we  find  out  the  cause  of  the  effect,  or  rather  say,  the  cause  of 
the  defect,"  in  the  several  attempted  explanations  of  the  passage 
in  question.  That  defect  is  due  to  one  thing,  and  one  thing  only, 
and  that  is,  to  the  understanding  of  "kissing"  as  the  present  active 
participle,  and  not  as  the  verbal  noun.  It  is  well  known  to  all 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  337 

English  scholars  that,  in  the  early  period  of  our  language,  there 
were  distinct  forms  for  the  present  active  participle  and  the  verbal 
noun,  the  former  ending  in  Anglo-Saxon  in  -ende,  and  the  latter  in 
-ung,  which  endings  became,  respectively,  -end  (-ende),  and  -ing 
(-inge),  in  Middle  English.  This  distinction  between  the  parti- 
ciple and  the  verbal  noun  continued  to  be  quite  strictly  observed 
until  near  the  end  of  the  i4th  century.  It  is  so  observed  in  the 
earlier  text  of  the  Wycliffite  versions  of  the  Scriptures,  and  in 
Gower's  "  Confessio  Amantis,"  the  present  participle  terminating 
almost  invariably  in  -ende,  a  few  cases  only  occurring  of  the  latter 
form  in  -inge  (-ing).  In  Chaucer's  works,  which  represent  the 
most  advanced  stage  of  the  language  in  his  time,  the  present  par- 
ticiple terminates,  with  very  rare  exceptions,  in  -ing  or  -yng  (-inge 
or  -ynge).  Soon  after  the  close  of  the  i4th  century,  -ing  be- 
came the  common  ending  of  the  participle  and  the  verbal  noun. 
But  it  is  often  important  to  determine  which  is  which,  in  reading 
an  author  of  so  contriving  a  spirit  of  expression  as  Shakespeare 
exhibits. 

In  the  following  passages,  for  example,  the  present  active  parti- 
ciple is  used  :  "  Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,"  Macbeth,  5.  5.  24  ; 
"  Look,  here  comes  a  walking  fire."  King  Lear,  3.  4.  no ;  "  the 
dancing  banners  of  the  French."  King  John,  2.  i.  308;  "my 
dancing  soul  doth  celebrate  This  feast  of  battle  with  mine  adver- 
sary." Richard  II.  i.  3.  91  ;  "labouring  art  can  never  ransom 
nature  From  her  inaidable  estate  ;  "  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  2. 
i.  116;  "more  busy  than  the  labouring  spider"  2  Henry  VI.  3. 
i.  339  :  "And  let  the  labouring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas  Olympus- 
high  "  Othello,  2.  i.  184 ;  "thy  parting  soul ! "  i  Henry  VI.  2.  5. 
115  ;  "parting  guest"  Troilus  and  Cressida,  3.  3.  166  ;  "a  falling 
fabric."  Coriolanus,  3.  i.  247;  "this  breathing  world,"  Richard 
III.  i.  i.  21 ;  "  O  blessed  breeding  sun,"  Timon  of  Athens,  4.  3.  i. 

But  in  the  following  passages  the  same  words  are  verbal  nouns 
used  adjectively  : 

"a  palmer's  walking- staff,"  Richard  II.  3.  3.  151  ;  "you  and  I 
are  past  our  dancing-days;"  Romeo  and  Juliet,  i.  5.  29;  "you 


338  JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

ought  not  walk  Upon  a  labouring  day  "  Julius  Caesar,  1.1.4;  "ere 
I  could  Give  him  that  parting  kiss  "  Cymbeline,  i.  3.  34;  "And 
say,  what  store  of  parting  tears  were  shed?  "  Richard  II.  i.  4.  5  ; 
"he  hath  the  falling  sickness."  Julius  Caesar,  i.  2.  252  ;  "Cannot 
be  quiet  scarce  a  breathing  while,"  Richard  III.  i.  3.  60;  "it  is 
the  breathing  time  of  day  with  me  ;  "  Hamlet,  5.  2.  165. 

And  now  we  are  all  ready  for  "  kissing  "  :  In  the  following  pas- 
sages it  is  the  participle  : 

"A  kissing  traitor."  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  5.  2.  592;  "the 
greedy  touch  Of  common-kissing  Titan,"  Cymbeline,  3.  4.  164 ; 
"  O,  how  ripe  in  show,  Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting 
grow  !  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  3.  2.  140. 

"  Kissing,"  in  the  last  passage,  might  be  taken  for  the  verbal 
noun,  meaning,  for  kissing,  or,  to  be  kissed ;  but  it  must  here  be 
understood  as  the  participle.  Demetrius  speaks  of  the  lips  of 
Helena,  as  two  ripe  cherries  that  kiss,  or  lightly  touch,  each  other. 
But  to  say  of  a  pair  of  beautiful  lips  that  they  are  good  kissing  lips, 
would  convey  quite  a  different  meaning,  —  a  meaning,  however, 
which  nobody  would  mistake  :  "  Kissing  "  in  such  expression,  is 
the  verbal  noun  used  adjectively,  and  equivalent  to  "  for  kissing." 
And  so  the  word  is  used  in  the  passage  in  question : 

"  For  if  the  sun  breed  Magots  in  a  dead  dogge,  being  a  good 
kissing  Carrion  "  — 

That  is,  a  dead  dog  being,  not  a  carrion  good  at  kissing,  as  Mr. 
Knight  and  others  understand  it,  and  which  would  be  the  sense  of 
the  word,  as  a  present  active  participle,  but  a  carrion  good  for 
kissing,  or,  to  be  kissed,  by  the  sun,  that  thus  breeds  a  plentiful 
crop  of  maggots  therein,  the  agency  of  "  breed  "  being  implied  in 
"kissing."  In  reading  this  speech,  the  emphasis  should  be  upon 
"  kissing  "  and  not  upon  "  carrion,"  the  idea  of  which  last  word  is 
anticipated  in  "  dead  dog " ;  in  other  words,  "  kissing  carrion  " 
should  be  read  as  a  compound  noun,  which  in  fact  it  is,  the  stress 
of  sound  falling  on  the  member  of  the  compound  which  bears  the 
burden  of  the  meaning.  The  two  words  might,  indeed,  be  hy- 
phened, like  "  Kissing-comfits,"  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  5. 
5-  *9- 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET.  339 

The  fact  that  all  the  Quartos  and  Folios  perfectly  agree  in  the 
expression  "a  good  kissing  carrion,"  is  quite  conclusive  evidence 
that  it  is  the  correct  reading,  and  that  its  meaning  was  plain  to 
early  readers  and  hearers.  Had  it  been  obscure,  so  obscure  that 
"  not  even  a  tolerable  sense,"  to  use  Dyce's  words,  could  have 
been  "  tortured  out  of  the  original  reading,"  it  would  no  doubt 
have  been  tinkered  into  variations  before  Bishop  Warburton  made 
"  the  noble  emendation  which  almost  sets  the  critic  on  a  level 
with  the  author."  ! 

2.  2.  183-185.  Conception  is  a  blessing,  but  not  as  your 
daughter  may  conceive.  Friend  look  too't.  F.  conception  is 
a  blessing;  but  as  your  daughter  may  conceive,  —  friend,  look 
to't.  C.  The  sentence  is  complete  in  the  F.  and  the  "  not  "  is 
essential  to  Hamlet's  obvious  meaning.  He  says  what  he  does  to 
make  the  old  man  uneasy,  meaning,  that  though  conception  is  a 
blessing,  in  the  legitimate  way,  it  wouldn't  be  as  his  daughter 
might  conceive  —  out  of  wedlock.  Polonius,  with  his  fossilized 
prudential  wisdom,  has  had  no  living  organs  of  discernment  to 
perceive  Hamlet's  sensibility  of  principle  and  chastity  of  honor, 
and  has  feared  that  his  daughter's  relations  with  the  prince  "  out 
of  her  star,"  would  result  in  her  shame.  Hamlet's  penetrating 
sagacity  has  revealed  to  him  the  old  man's  fears,  and  he  accord- 
ingly plays  upon  them. 

2.  2.  1 88.  he  is  farre  gone,  farre  gone  :  F.  he  is  farre  gone  : 
C.  The  repetition  in  the  F.  is  more  effective,  and  very  natural, 
too,  for  one  speaking  in  Polonius's  assured  state  of  mind.  There 
is,  also,  more  of  the  old  man  in  it. 

2.  2.  197.  their  eyes  purging  thicke  Amber,  or  Plum-Tree 
Gumme  :  F.  ...  thick  amber  and  plum-tree  gum,  C. 

2.  2.  20 1.  For  you  your  selfe  Sir,  should  be  old  as  I  am,  if 
like  a  Crab  you  could  go  backward.  F.  for  yourself,  sir,  shall 
grow  old  as  I  am,  if  like  a  crab  you  could  go  backward.  C.  It  is 
not  likely  that  the  poet  meant  that  Hamlet  should  talk  nonsense 
in  this  passage,  but  rather  that  he  should  express  himself  in  a  way 
to  puzzle  the  old  man.  As  it  stands  in  the  F.  it  would  seem  that 


340         JOTTINGS  ON  THE  TEXT  OP  HAMLET. 

"old  "  is  used,  not  as  opposed  to  "young,"  but  as  denoting  age 
in  general.  So  that  the  expression  really  means,  "  you  yourself, 
sir,  should  be  young  as  I  am,  if,  like  a  crab,  you  could  go  back- 
ward." The  sense  is  further  obfuscated  by  speaking  of  the  purely 
ideal  going  backward  in  time  under  the  purely  literal  image  of 
going  backward  like  a  crab. 

2.  2.  205.  Pol.  will  you  walke  Out  of  the  ayre  my  Lord? 
Ham.  Into  my  grave  ?  F.  Into  my  grave.  C.  There  can  be 
no  question  of  the  correctness  of  the  ?  in  the  F.  Hamlet's 
speech,  paraphrased,  would  be,  "You  ask  me  to  walk  out  of  the 
air  :  would  you  have  me  walk  into  my  grave?  "  Hamlet's  replies 
to  those  persons  of  the  play  whom  he  dislikes  or  despises,  the 
King,  Polonius,  and  the  courtiers,  are  characterized  by  their  literal- 
ness.  When  the  King  asks,  "How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet?" 
Hamlet  replies,  "  Excellent,  i'  faith ;  of  the  chameleon's  dish : 
I  eat  the  air,  promise-crammed :  you  cannot  feed  capons  so." 
When  he  asks  Osric,  "What's  his  [Laertes's]  weapon?"  and  Osric 
replies,  "Rapier  and  dagger,"  Hamlet  replies,  "That's  two  of  his 
weapons." 

2.  2.  206.  Indeed  that  is  out  o'  th'  Ayre :  F.  Indeed,  that's 
out  of  the  air.  C.  The  proper  elocution  requires  that  "is"  be 
made  emphatic,  which  it  cannot  be  if  contracted  as  in  the  C. 

2.  2.  217.  Polon.  You  goe  to  seeke  my  Lord  Hamlet;  there 
he  is.  F.  ...  the  Lord  Hamlet ;  C. 

2.  2.  219-222.  Guild.  Mine  honour'd  Lord?  Ros.  My  most 
deare  Lord?  Ham.  My  excellent  good  friends?  How  do'st 
thou  Gnildensterne  ?  Oh,  Rosincrane. ;  good  Lads :  How  doe 
ye  both  ?  F.  Guti.  My  honoured  lord  !  Ros.  My  most  dear 
lord !  Ham.  My  excellent  good  friends !  How  dost  thou, 
Guildenstern  ?  Ah,  Rosencrantz  !  Good  lads,  how  do  you  both  ? 
C.  The  ?  of  the  F.  represents  the  elocution  better  than  the  !  of 
the  C.  It  would  appear  from  the  F.  reading,  that  Hamlet,  when 
addressing  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern,  gives  his  attention  to 
the  latter,  saying,  after  the  common  address,  "How  dost  thou 
Guildenstern?"  before  recognizing  Rosencrantz;  the  "Oh,"  in 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  341 

"  Oh  Rosincrane  "  involves  a  friendly  apology.  There  seems  to 
be  a  certain  playfulness  in  the  "How  do  ye  both?"  of  the  F., 
which  is  not  in  the  "  How  do  you  both  ?  "  of  the  C. 

2.  2.  229.  Ham.  Then  you  Hue  about  her  waste,  or  in  the 
middle  of  her  fauour?  F.  Then  you  live  about  her  waist,  or  in 
the  middle  of  her  favours?  C.  There  is  a  word  play  intended  in 
the  use  of  "  favour  "  which  is  precluded  by  the  plural  form  of  the 
C. ;  "  favour  "  is  used  equivocally  in  the  sense  of  "  face,"  "  counte- 
nance," for  which  the  plural  "  favours  "  could  not  be  used,  and  in 
the  sense  of  "  propitiousness." 

2.  2.  238.     Guil.  Prison,  my  Lord?  F.     Prison,  my  lord  !  C. 

2.  2.  336.  (as  it  is  like  most  if  their  meanes  are  no  better)  F. 
—  as  it  is  most  like,  if  their  means  are  no  better,  —  C.  This  pas- 
sage does  not  occur  in  the  Quartos.  The  change  of  "like  most" 
to  "most  like"  adopted  by  the  C.,  was  made  by  Pope.  But 
"  like  most  "  may  be  what  the  poet  wrote,  in  the  sense  of  "  like- 
liest," "  most "  being  used  as  a  suffix,  as  in  "  foremost,"  "  mid- 
most," "inmost,"  etc. 

2.  2.  238.  there  ha's  bene  much  to  do  on  both  sides :  F. 
there  has  been  much  to  do  on  both  sides,  C.  In  a  modernized 
edition,  "to  do"  should  be  hyphened,  the  two  words  being  used 
together  as  a  substantive.  "In  place  of  this  to-do  the  King's 
English  accepted  a  composition,  part  French,  part  English,  and 
hence  the  substantive  ado"  —  Earle's  "  Philology  of  the  English 
Tongue,"  2d  ed.  p.  420.  But  see  Skeat's  "'Etymological  Dic- 
tionary," s.v.  "  ado,"  where  the  correct  etymology  is  given  of  the 
word. 

2.  2.  354.  Let  me  comply  with  you  in  the  Garbe,  F.  This 
garb,  C.  "  the  "  is  used  in  the  F.  generically,  and  makes  the 
better  sense. 

2.  2.  369.  for  a  Monday  morning  'twas  so  indeed.  F.  o'Mon- 
day  morning;  'twas  so,  indeed.  C.  "o'"  is  after  Capell ;  the 
Quartos  read  "a,"  the  ist,  2d,  and  3d,  Folios,  "for  a,"  the  4th, 
"  for  on."  The  2d  and  3d  Quartos  have  a  comma  after  "  morn- 
ing," the  4th,  5th,  and  6th,  and  the  Folios,  have  no  point. 


342  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

2.  2.  376.  Vpon  mine  Honor.  F.  Upon  my  honour,  — -  C. 
In  the  use  of  the  dash,  the  C.  follows  Rowe.  But  the  sense  is 
apparently  complete.  All  the  Quartos  and  Folios  have  a  period. 

2.  2.  381-3.  Seneca  cannot  be  too  heauy,  nor  Plautus  too 
light,  for  the  law  of  Writ,  and  the  Liberty.  These  are  the  onely 
men.  F.  Seneca  cannot  be  too  heavy,  nor  Plautus  too  light. 
For  the  law  of  writ  and  the  liberty,  these  are  the  only  men.  C. 
The  pointing  of  the  C.  is  Theobald's.  The  2d,  3d,  4th,  and  5th, 
Quartos  have  no  point  after  "  light  "  and  a  colon  after  "liberty  "  ; 
the  Folios  all  have  a  comma  after  "light"  and  a  period  after 
"liberty";  the  6th  Quarto  and  Quarto  (1676)  have  no  point 
after  "  light "  and  a  semicolon  after  "  liberty."  All  the  Quartos 
and  Folios,  therefore,  connect  in  construction,  "for  the  law  of 
writ  and  the  liberty,"  with  Seneca  and  Plautus,  and  not  with 
"  these  are  the  only  men,"  which  evidently  refers  to  the  actors 
he's  talking  about.  "  Liberty  "  should  be  construed  with  "  law  "  : 
the  law  and  the  liberty  of  writ  [writing] .  And  "  law  "  and  "  liberty  " 
seem  to  refer,  respectively,  to  "  heavy  "  and  "  light."  This  respec- 
tive construction  is  frequent  in  Shakespeare.  See  Macbeth,  i.  3. 
60,  61  ;  Hamlet,  3.  i.  151;  Winter's  Tale,  3.  2.  160-162;  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra,  3.  2.  15-18  ;  4.  15.  25,  26  ;  Comedy  of  Errors, 
2.  2.  112-117  )  The  Tempest,  i.  2.  335,  336  ;  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  3.  i.  98-101. 

2.  2.  401.  For  looke  where  my  Abridgements  come.  F.  ... 
my  abridgement  comes.  C.  The  singular  is  used  in  all  the 
Quartos,  and  the  plural  in  all  the  Folios,  and  it  would  seem  that 
they  were  used  with  a  different  understanding  of  their  meaning ; 
"my  abridgement,"  they  who  will  cut  short  my  talk,  "my"  being 
used  objectively ;  "  my  Abridgements,"  they  who  are,  as  Hamlet 
calls  them  further  on  in  the  Scene,  11.  501,  502,  "the  Abstracts 
and  breefe  Chronicles  of  the  time,"  "  my  "  being  ethical. 

2.  2.  403.  O  my  olde  Friend?  F.  O,  my  old  friend  !  C.  The 
?  is  better.  The  speech  should  be  uttered  with  an  interrogative 
intonation  expressive  of  a  pleasant  surprise.  80405,406.  What, 
my  young  Lady  and  Mistris?  F.  The  C.  employs  a  !  again. 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  343 

2.  2.  406.     neerer  Heauen  F.     nearer  to  heaven  C. 

2.  2.  424.  One  cheefe  Speech  in  it,  I  cheefely  lou'd,  F.  One 
speech  in  it  I  chiefly  loved :  C. 

2.  2.  438.  a  tyrannous,  and  damned  light  F.  a  tyrannous  and 
a  damned  light.  C.  The  repetition  of  "  a "  makes  two  distinct 
lights. 

2.  2.  501.  the  Abstracts  and  breefe  Chronicles  of  the  time,  F. 
the  abstract  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  time  :  C. 

2.  2.  503.     while  you  liued.  F.     while  you  live.  C. 

2.  2.  506.  and  who  should  scape  whipping :  F.  and  who 
shall  'scape  whipping?  C.  The  conditional  "should"  is  better 
after  the  postulate  "use  every  man  after  his  desert." 

2.  2.  521.  Rosin.  Good  my  Lord.  F.  Good  my  lord!  C. 
The  period  is  better.  Rosencrantz  simply  assents  to  what  Hamlet 
has  just  said,  "  I'll  leave  you  till  night." 

2.  2.  526.     whole  conceit,  F.     own  conceit  C. 

2.  2.  558.     I  [i.e.,  Ay]  sure,  this  is  most  braue,  F.     This  is 
most  brave,  C.     The  "  I  sure  "  of  the  F.  adds  to  the  irony  of  the 
expression. 

3.  1.63.     That  Flesh  is  heyre  too?     Tis  F.     That   flesh   is 
heir  to,  'tis  C.     The  punctuation  of  the  F.  is  preferable.     After 
the  reflection  that  death  is  no  more  than  a  sleep,  the  question 
arises  in  Hamlet's  mind  as  to  whether  by  a  sleep  we  shall  end  the 
heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks  that  flesh  is  heir  to. 
On  which  he   reflects,  "'Tis  a  consummation   Devoutly   to   be 
wish'd." 

3.  i.  71.  the  poore  mans  Contumely,  F.  the  proud  man's 
contumely,  C.  The  Quartos  all  read  "proud,"  the  Folios,  " poor." 
In  the  two  expressions,  the  genitive  is  differently  used  :  in  the  first, 
it  is  objective,  "the  poor  man's  contumely,"  meaning  the  con- 
tumely or  contemptuous  treatment  the  poor  man  suffers ;  in  the 
second,  it  is  subjective,  "the  proud  man's  contumely"  meaning 
the  contumely  or  contemptuous  treatment  the  proud  man  exer- 
cises. 

3.  i.  72.   The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  Loue,  the  F.   The  pangs  of  de- 


344  JOTTINGS  OX  THE   TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

spised  love,  the  C.  "dispriz'd  "  is  the  reading  of  the  Folios  ;  2d  and 
3d  Quartos,  "despiz'd"  ;  4th  and  5th  Quartos,  "office,  and  the"  ; 
"mispriz'd"  Collier  MS.  (erased).  It  would  be  hard  to  decide 
as  to  the  relative  force  of  the  two  words  "  dispriz'd  "  and  "  de- 
spised." But,  perhaps,  a  disprized  or  undervalued  love,  a  love 
that  is  only  partially  appreciated  and  responded  to,  would  be  apt 
to  suffer  more  pangs  than  a  despised  love. 

3.  i.  76.  Who  would  these  Fardles  beare  F.  who  would  far- 
dels bear,  C.  "  these  Fardles  "  is  the  reading  of  all  the  Folios ; 
according  to  the  C.  reading,  which  is  that  of  the  Quartos,  "  far- 
dels "  means  something  additional  to  what  Hamlet  has  enumerated 
in  the  six  preceding  lines,  "  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time,"  "  the 
oppressor's  wrong,"  "  the  poor  man's  contumely,"  etc. ;  but  ac- 
cording to  the  F.  reading,  "  fardels "  represents  all  these.  It 
would  seem  that,  having  said,  11.  70  et  seq.,  "  who  would  bear," 
(the  several  things  he  specifies,}  he  repeats  "who  would  bear," 
with  the  general  object,  "  fardels,"  (representing  all  the  special 
ones,)  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  the  exceptive  clause,  "  But 
that  the  dread  of  something  after  death,  .  .  .  puzzles  the  will," 
etc.  Besides,  the  general  term  "  fardels  "  when  not  identified  in 
meaning,  by  the  use  of  "  these,"  with  the  preceding  specifications, 
comes  in  somewhat  flat.  The  F.  reading  seems  altogether  the 
best. 

3.  i.  86.  And  enterprizes  of  great  pith  and  moment,  F.  ... 
of  great  pitch  and  moment  C.  Independently  of  the  authority 
for  "pith,"  namely,  all  the  Folios  and  the  players'  Quartos  of  1676, 
1683,  1695,  I7°3>  "pitch"  and  "moment"  haven't  the  congruity 
that  "  pith  "  and  "  moment  "  have,  more  especially,  too,  if  "  mo- 
ment "  be  understood  as  retaining  some  of  its  original  force  of 
"  momentum."  The  greater  congruity  of  "pith"  and  "  moment " 
than  of  "  pitch  "  and  "  moment "  will  be  seen  by  Shakespeare's 
uses  of  these  words  in  the  following  passages  :  "  that's  my  pith  of 
business  'Twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother."  Meas.  for  Meas.  i. 
4.  70 ;  "  Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what's  the  pith  of  all."  T.  of 
the  S.  i.  i.  161 ;  "grandsires,  babies,  and  old  women,  Either  past 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  345 

or  not  arrived  to  pith  and  puissance ; "  Hen.  V.  3.  i.  Chorus,  21  ; 
"The  pith  and  marrow  of  our  attribute."  Ham.  i.  4.  22  ;  "For 
since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith,"  Othel.  i.  3.  83; 
"pithy  and  effectual,"  T.  of  the  S.  i.  i.  66;  "An  oath  is  of  no 
moment,  being  not  took  Before  a  true  and  lawful  magistrate,"  3 
Hen.  VI.  i.  2.  22  ;  "I  have  seen  her  die  twenty  times  upon  far 
poorer  moment:"  A.  and  C.  i.  2.  137.  And  does  not  "pith" 
suit  the  idea  of  "currents"  better,  in  the  next  line?  The  editors 
of  the  C.  remark,  Note  XVI.,  "  In  this  doubtful  passage  we  have 
retained  the  reading  of  the  Quartos,  although  the  players'  Quartos 
of  1676,  1683,  1695,  1703,  have,  contrary  to  their  custom,  fol- 
lowed the  Folios,  which  may  possibly  indicate  that  '  pith '  was  the 
reading  according  to  the  stage  tradition." 

3.  i.  87.  their  Currants  turne  away,  F.  their  currents  turn 
awry  C.  "turn  away"  expresses  more  of  an  entire  change  of 
current,  which  is  Hamlet's  idea,  than  does  "  turn  awry." 

3.  i.  89.    The  faire  Ophelia  ?  F.    The  fair  Ophelia  !  C. 

3.  i.  94.  I  pray  you  now,  receiue  them.  F.  I  pray  you,  now 
receive  them.  C.  Having  longed  long  to  re-deliver  his  remem- 
brances, she,  now  that  the  opportunity  is  afforded,  prays  him  to 
receive  them.  The  pointing  of  the  F.  is  the  more  correct.  Even 
the  very  different  reading  of  the  First  Quarto  indicates  the  bearing 
of  "  now  "  :  "  My  Lord,  I  haue  sought  opportunitie,  which  now  I 
haue,  to  redeliuer  to  your  worthy  handes,  a  small  remembrance." 

3.  i.  97.  I  know  right  well  you  did  F.  you  know  right  well 
you  did ;  C.  The  F.  reading  is  the  more  significant.  Ophelia's 
meaning  is,  the  remembrances  you  gave  me,  may  have  been  trifles 
to  you,  such  trifles  as  left  no  impression  on  your  mind  of  your 
having  given  them  ;  but  /  know  right  well  you  did,  as  they  were 
most  dear  to  me  at  the  time,  accompanied  as  they  were  with 
expressions  of  affection.  "  I  "  should  be  read  with  a  strong  up- 
ward circumflex. 

3.  i.  158.  Like  sweet  Bels  iangled  out  of  tune,  and  harsh,  F. 
Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh ;  C.  All  the 
Quartos  and  Folios  agree  in  having  a  comma  after  "  tune  "  (Qq 


346  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

time)  ;  the  pointing  of  the  C.  is  Capell's.  The  phrase  "  out  of 
tune"  is  certainly  an  adverbial  element  to  "jangled"  and  not  an 
adjective  element  to  "  sweet  bells."  The  two  ideas  attached  to 
"bells"  are  i.  "jangled  out  of  tune";  2.  "harsh,"  which  ex- 
presses to  what  extent  "jangled  out  of  tune." 

3.  i.  178.     How  now  Ophelia  ?  F.     How  now,  Ophelia  !  C. 

3.  i.  183.  To  shew  his  Greefes :  F.  To  show  his  grief:  C. 
"  Greefes  "  is  used  here  in  the  sense  of  grievances.  So  further  on 
in  the  play,  3.  2.  323,  "if  you  deny  your  greefes  to  your  Friend." 

3.  2.  8.  to  see  a  robustious  Pery-wig-pated  Fellow,  teare  a 
Passion  to  tatters,  F.  to  hear  .  .  .  C.  The  tearing  of  a  passion 
to  tatters  by  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow,  is  more  addressed 
to  the  eye  than  to  the  ear.  His  robustiousness  and  his  periwig- 
patedness  are  seen  alone,  as  are  also  the  distortions  through  which 
he  endeavors  to  exhibit  the  passion ;  it  is  only  what  he  says  that 
is  addressed  to  the  ear. 

3.  2.  12.  I  could  haue  such  a  Fellow  whipt  F.  I  would 
.  .  .  C. 

3.  2.  51.  O  my  deere  Lord.  F.  O,  my  dear  lord, —  C.  The 
Quartos  and  Folios  all  agree  in  having  a  period  after  "  Lord." 
The  dash  of  the  C.,  indicating  an  interrupted  speech,  is  after 
Rowe.  The  context  shows  that  no  interruption  is  intended. 
Horatio  must  be  supposed  to  say  "  O  my  dear  Lord  "  in  a  way 
expressive  of  a  feeling  of  being  flattered  by  what  Hamlet  has  just 
said,  "  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man  As  e'er  my  conversa- 
tion coped  withal,"  uttering  "  O  "  and  "  Lord  "  with  a  downward 
circumflex,  and  Hamlet  replies,  "  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter :  " 
etc. 

3.  2.  59,  60.  Since  my  deere  Soule  was  Mistris  of  my  choyse, 
And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election  Hath  seal'd  thee  for 
her  selfe.  F.  The  C.  follows  the  pointing  of  the  F.  in  having  a 
comma  after  "  distinguish."  The  Quartos  read,  "  distinguish  her 
election,  S'hath  "  (Shath  Quartos  4th  and  5th,  Sh'ath  Quarto  6th)  ; 
"  distinguish  her  election  "  is  decidedly  Shakespearian,  and  may 
be  what  the  poet  wrote.  The  use  of  a  cognate  accusative  is  a 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET,  347 

marked  feature  of  Shakespeare's  diction,  "of  men,"  too,  joins 
better  to  "  election  "  than  to  "  distinguish."  The  C.  reads  "  her 
choice,"  after  the  Quartos. 

3.  2.  60-63.  For  thou  hast  bene  As  one  in  suffering  all,  that 
suffers  nothing.  A  man  that  Fortunes  buffets,  and  Rewards  Hath 
'tane  with  equall  Thankes.  F.  ...  Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks  : 
C.  The  C.  follows  the  Quartos  here  in  spite  of  the  solecism  in 
the  use  of  "Hast."  Though  the  subject-nominative  "thou"  is  2d 
person,  the  predicate-nominative  "  man  "  is  3d  person,  and  being 
the  antecedent  of  the  relative  "that,"  determines  the  person  of 
the  verb  to  which  "  that "  is  the  nominative  or  subject. 

3.  2.  72.  the  Circumstance  Which  I  haue  told  thee,  of  my 
Father's  death.  F.  The  C.,  following  the  Quartos,  omits  the 
comma  after  "thee  "  ;  it  serves  to  show  that  the  phrase  "of  my 
father's  death"  is  connected  with  "circumstance"  and  not  with 
"told,"  and,  in  neat  pointing,  should  not  be  omitted. 

3.  2.  73-75.  I  prythee,  when  thou  see'st  that  Acte  a-foot,  Euen 
with  the  verie  Comment  of  my  Soule  Obserue  mine  Vnkle  :  F. 
.  .  .  comment  of  thy  soul  Observe  my  uncle  :  C.  after  the  Quartos. 
The  F.  reading  is  the  more  expressive  :  Hamlet's  meaning  is,  I 
would  have  thee  so  enter  into  my  feelings,  so  identify  thyself  with 
me  that,  when  thou  seest  that  act  a-foot,  even  with  the  very  com- 
ment of  my  soul,  thou  wilt  observe  my  uncle.  The  use  of  "  my  " 
also  gives  force  to  "  Even  with  the  very,"  which  has  less  force  in 
the  other  reading. 

3.  2.  79,  80.  Giue  him  needfull  note,  For  I  mine  eyes  will 
riuet  to  his  Face  :  F.  "  For "  depends,  for  its  force,  on  what 
Hamlet  says  in  the  74th  and  75th  lines,  "Even  with  the  very  com- 
ment of  my  soul  Observe  mine  Uncle  : "  then  having  again  en- 
joined Horatio  to  "Give  him  needful  note,"  or  as  the  Quartos 
have  it,  which  the  C.  follows,  "  heedful  note,"  he  adds,  "  For  I 
mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face  :  " 

3.  2.  8 1,  82.  And  after  we  will  both  our  iudgments  ioyne,  To 
censure  of  his  seeming.  F.  ...  In  censure  of  his  seeming.  C. 
after  the  Quartos.  In  the  F.  reading,  "censure"  is  a  noun,  as  it 


348  JOTTINGS   ON   THE    TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

is  in  the  C.  For  the  force  of  "  To,"  see  Abbott's  Shakespearian 
Grammar,  rev.  and  enl.  ed.  §  186. 

3.  2.  92-96.  Ham.  .  .  .  you  plaid  once  i'  th'  Vniuersity,  you 
say?  Polon.  That  I  did  my  Lord,  and  was  accounted  a  good 
Actor.  Ham.  And  what  did  you  enact  ?  F.  What  did  you  enact  ? 
C.  after  the  Quartos.  The  F.  reading  has  a  touch  of  the  con- 
temptuous imparted  to  it  by  the  initial  word  "And.:"  "What,  I 
pray,  or  forsooth,  didjjw<?  enact?" 

3.  2.  194,  195.  The  great  man  downe,  you  marke  his  fauourites 
flies,  The  poore  aduanc'd,  makes  Friends  of  Enemies  :  F.  ... 
you  mark  his  favourite  flies;  C.  The  plural  "favourites"  suits 
the  context  better;  it  is,  in  fact,  demanded;  and  in  regard  to 
"flies,"  see  Abbott's  "Shakespearian  Grammar,"  §  333,  where  this 
passage  is  quoted. 

3.  2.  220.  Qu.  The  Lady  protests  to  much  me  thinkes.  F. 
The  lady  doth  protest  too  much,  methinks.  C.  The  more  familiar 
"  protests  "  is  better  here  than  "  doth  protest." 

3.  2.  240.  Ophe.  Still  better  and  worse.  Ham.  So  you  mis- 
take Husbands.  F.  So  you  must  take  your  husbands.  C.  So  you 
must  take  your  husband,  ist  Quarto ;  the  other  Quartos,  mistake 
your  husbands.  The  other  Folios  like  the  ist.  There  is  a  quibble 
evidently  intended :  so  you  mistake,  or  take  amiss,  husbands,  i.e., 
for  better  and  worse. 

3.  2.  250.  writ  in  choyce  Italian.  F.  This  may  be  a  case  of 
absorption  :  the  -en  of  the  participle  being  present  in  "in."  But 
it's  not  necessary  to  understand  it  so.  The  C.  reads,  after  the 
Quartos,  "  written  in  very  choice  Italian  :  " 

3.  2.  251.  Murtherer  F.  This  form  of  the  word  it  would  be 
well  to  retain  ;  "  murther,"  noun  and  verb,  and  "  murtherer  "  were 
the  usual  forms  of  the  English  of  the  time. 

3.  2.  262.  So  runnes  the  world  away.  F.  Thus  runs  the  world 
away.  C.  after  the  Quartos.  The  more  general  and  indefinite 
"So"  seems  preferable  here  to  the  formal  "Thus." 

3.  2.  292.  Your  wisdome  should  shew  it  selfe  more  richer,  to 
signifie  this  to  his  Doctor  :  F.  the  doctor  ;  C, 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  349 

3.  2.  301-303.  If  it  shall  please  you  to  make  me  a  wholsome 
answer,  I  will  doe  your  Mothers  command' ment :  if  not,  your  par- 
don, and  my  returne  shall  bee  the  end  of  my  Businesse.  F  ... 
if  not,  your  pardon  and  my  return  shall  be  the  end  of  my  business. 
C.  Do  the  editors  of  the  C.,  by  omitting  the  comma  after  "  par- 
don," mean  to  construe  it  with  "return"?  That  would  certainly 
not  give  Rosencrantz'  meaning,  which  the  F.  shows  to  be,  "if 
you  cannot  give  me  a  wholesome  answer,  pardon  me  for  having 
troubled  you,  and  my  return  shall  be  the  end  of  my  business." 

3.  2.  322,  323.  You  do  freely  barre  the  doore  of  your  owne 
Libertie,  if  you  deny  your  greefs  to  your  Friend.  F.  you  do 
surely  bar  the  door  upon  .  .  .  C.  "freely  "  =  "of  your  own  free 
will,"  perhaps  as  much  as  "  wilfully." 

3.  2.  329.  to  withdraw  with  you,  why  do  you  go  about  to  re- 
couer  the  winde  of  mee,  as  if  you  would  driue  me  into  a  toyle  ?  F. 
To  withdraw  with  you :  —  C.  the  rest  like  F. ;  the  Quartos  all 
have  a  comma  after  "you,"  except  the  6th,  which  has  a  semicolon. 
Taking  the  F.  reading  as  it  stands,  it  appears  that  Hamlet,  after 
receiving  the  recorder  from  the  attendant,  steps  aside,  and  as  he 
does  so,  says  to  Guildenstern,  "  To  withdraw  with  you,"  as  an  inti- 
mation of  his  wish  to  speak  to  him  apart,  and  then  continues, 
"  why  do  you  go  about "  etc.  A  similar  example  of  this  absolute 
use  of  the  infinitive  occurs,  4th  Scene  of  this  Act,  1.  216  :  "  Come, 
sir,  to  draw  toward  an  end  with  you." 

3.  2.  341.  Ham.  'Tis  as  easie  as  lying:  F.  It  is  as  easy  as 
lying:  C. 

3.  2.  343.  it  will  discourse  most  excellent  Musicke.  F.  most 
eloquent  music.  C.  after  the  Quartos.  I  feel  a  certain  serious- 
ness—  that's  hardly  the  word  —  about  "  eloquent,"  not  in  keep- 
ing; whereas,  in  the  use  of  "excellent,"  there  seems  to  be 
implied  the  idea,  that  the  music  that  can  be  got  out  of  the  little 
instrument,  is  superior  to  what  one  would  suspect.  The  word 
"  excellent  "  should  be  pronounced  with  a  downward  circumflex 
on  "  ex-,"  imparting  a  patronizing  tone. 

3-  2-  34  7>  34^.     Why  looke  you  now,  how  vnworthy  a  thing  you 


350  JOTTINGS   ON   THE   TEXT   OF  HAMLET. 

make  of  me  :  F.  ...  you  make  of  me  !  C.  The  colon  is  used 
in  the  F.  as  it  quite  uniformly  is,  before  a  specification  when  for- 
mally introduced.  The  sentence  is  not  exclamatory.  Hamlet 
simply  invites  Guildenstern's  attention  to  what  he  is  about  to  state. 
The  use  of  "  now  "  seems  also  to  indicate  this. 

3.  2.  352.  There  is  much  Musicke,  excellent  Voice,  in  this 
little  organe,  yet  cannot  you  make  it.  F.  ...  yet  cannot  you 
make  it  speak.  C.  The  C.  reads  better,  but  the  F.  is  not  imper- 
fect without  "  speak  :  "  "  it "  stands  for  "  music  "  or  "  voice." 

3-  2-  354)  355-  though  you  can  fret  me,  you  cannot  play  vpon 
me.  F.  ...  yet  you  cannot  play  upon  me.  C.  after  the  First 
Quarto ;  all  the  others,  and  the  Folios,  omit  "  yet."  The  use  of 
"yet"  as  the  correlative  of  " though,"  adds  to  the  formalness,  and 
takes  away  from  the  plain  decisiveness,  of  the  speech. 

3-  2-  359>  3^0.  Do  you  see  that  Clowd?  that's  almost  in  shape 
like  a  Camell.  F.  Do  you  see  yonder  cloud  that's  almost  in  shape 
of  a  camel?  C. 

3.  2.  361.  By  th'  Misse,  and  it's  like  a  Camell  indeed.  F. 
By  the  mass,  and  'tis  like  a  camel,  indeed.  C.  "Misse"  may 
have  been  a  form  of  "  Mass  "  in  use,  or  an  abbreviation  of  "  Mis- 
sal ";  Lat.  missa. 

3.  2.  381,  382.  How  in  my  words  someuer  she  be  shent,  To 
giue  them  Scales,  neuer  my  Soule  consent.  F.  soever  C.  never, 
my  soul,  consent !  C.  The  absence  of  the  commas  in  all  the 
Quartos  and  Folios,  is  correct,  "  consent "  being,  not  an  impera- 
tive, but  a  subjunctive,  and  "  soul,"  a  nominative,  not  a  vocative. 
See  Abbott's  "Shakespearian  Grammar,"  §§  364,  365.  The  point- 
ing of  the  C.  is  after  Capell. 

3.  3.  5-7.  The  termes  of  our  estate,  may  not  endure  Hazard 
so  dangerous  as  doth  hourely  grow  Out  of  his  Lunacies.  F.  i.e., 
Hazard  as  doth  hourly  grow  so  dangerous.  The  C.  reads,  Hazard 
so  near  us  etc. 

3.  3.  14.  That  spirit  vpon  whose  spirit  depends  and  rests  The 
Hues  of  many,  F.  That  spirit  upon  whose  weal  depends  and  rests 
The  lives  of  many.  C.  after  Quartos.  Though  the  repetition  of 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  351 

"  spirit "  in  the  F.  is  somewhat  awkward,  there  seems  to  have 
been  a  reason  for  departing  from  the  reading  of  the  Quartos.  In 
the  3d  line  below,  majesty  is  spoken  of  as  a  massy  wheel,  Fixt  on 
the  summit  of  the  highest  mount,  etc.  The  clashing  of  the  words 
"  weal  "  and  "  wheel "  may  have  led  to  the  change. 

3.  3.  77.    I  his  foule  Sonne,  F.    I,  his  sole  son,  C.  after  Quartos. 

3.  3.  81.  With  all  his  Crimes  broad  blowne,  as  fresh  as  May, 
F.  The  metaphor  involved  is  that  of  fresh,  full-blown  flowers  in 
Spring ;  as  flush  as  May ;  C.  after  Quartos  ;  "  flush  "  is,  perhaps, 
the  more  forcible  term. 

3.  3.  91.     At  gaming,  swearing,  F.     At  game,  a-swearing,  C. 

3.  4.  4.  lie  silence  me  e'ene  heere :  F.  I'll  sconce  me  even 
here.  C.  "sconce  "  has  no  authority,  while  "silence,"  which  makes 
excellent  sense,  is  the  reading  of  all  the  Quartos  and  Folios.  The 
editors  of  the  C.  say,  note  XX. :  "  We  have  adopted  Hanmer's 
correction  '  sconce  '  for  '  silence  '  because  in  the  corresponding 
passage  of  the  First  Quarto  Polonius  says  :  *  I'le  shrowde  my  selfe 
behinde  the  Arras.' "  That  really  seems  to  be  reaching  very  far 
after  a  reason  for  the  adoption  of  "sconce,"  in  opposition  to  all 
the  authorities. 

3.  4.  13.  Why  how  now  Hamlet?  Why,  how  now,  Ham- 
let !  C. 

3.  4.  29.  Ham.  .  .  .  almost  as  bad  good  Mother,  As  kill  a 
King,  and  marrie  with  his  Brother.  Qu.  As  kill  a  King?  The 
Queen's  speech  should  be  uttered  with  a  strong  inquiring  surprise. 
The  C.  has  an  ! 

3.  4.  38.  That  it  is  proofe  and  bulwarke  against  sense.  F.  That 
it  be  C.  The  indicative  "is  "  is  more  correct  here  than  the  sub- 
junctive "be." 

3.  4.  55.  See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  his  Brow,  F.  this 
brow;  C. 

3.  4.  95.     mine  ears.  F.     my  ears;  C. 

3.  4.  104.  What  would  you  gracious  figure?  F.  What  would 
your  gracious  figure?  C.  after  Quartos.  With  a  comma  after 
"you,"  making  "figure"  vocative,  the  F.  is  the  better  reading. 


352  JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

Knight  has  adopted  it,  so  pointed.  "  figure  "  doesn't  make,  logi- 
cally, a  very  good  subject  to  "  would." 

3.  4.  139.     Extasie?  F.     Ecstasy  !  C. 

3.  4.  145.  Lay  not  a  flattering  Vnction  to  your  soule,  That,  F. 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul,  That  C. 

3.  4.  152.  And  do  not  spred  the  Compost  or  the  Weedes, 
F.  ...  on  the  weeds,  C.  The  "or"  of  the  F.  may  be  for  "ore" 
or  "  o'er."  Knight  has  "  o'er." 

3.  4.  159.     mine  Vnkles  bed,  F.     my  uncle's  bed ;  C. 

4.  i.  i,  2.     There's  matters  in  these  sighes.     These  profound 
heaues  You  must  translate;  F.     There's  matter  in  these  sighs, 
these   profound   heaves :    You   must   translate :    C.     The   better 
pointing  of  the  Folio  here  is  unquestionable.     According  to  the 
pointing  of  the   C.,  "heaves"   is   construed  with   "sighs"  and 
"  You  must  translate  "  stands  detached  in  construction.     Further- 
more, the  King  uses  "profound"  equivocally,  as  it  may  mean, 
"deep,"  literally,  and  "deep"  in  significance ;  and  upon  the  latter 
meaning,  "  translate  "  bears.    The  king  then  adds,  " '  tis  fit  we 
understand  them,"     This  is  lost  in  the  C.  pointing. 

4.  i.  4.     Bestow  this  place  on  us  a  little  while. 

[Exeunt  ROSENCRANTZ  and  GUILDENSTERN.  C. 

This  line  and  the  stage  direction  are  not  in  the  F.  and  it  was, 
perhaps,  found  best,  in  the  representation,  not  to  have  Rosen- 
crantz  and  Guildenstern  enter  until  they  were  wanted.  According 
to  the  Quartos,  they  enter  with  the  King  and  Queen,  only  to  be 
immediately  dismissed.  In  the  F.  they  are  made  to  enter  at  the 
32d  line  of  the  Scene,  where  the  King  calls  them  in  and  gives  them 
orders  about  Hamlet  and  they  then  go  out. 

4.  i.  ii.  And  in  his  brainish  apprehension  killes  The  vnseene 
good  old  man.  F.  And  in  this  .  .  .  C.  The  idea  of  "  brainish  ap- 
prehension "  has  not  been  anticipated,  so  that  "  his  "  is  preferable 
to  "  this  "  of  the  Qq. 

4.  i.  19-23.  But  so  much  was  our  loue,  We  would  not  vnder- 
stand  what  was  most  fit,  But  like  the  Owner  of  a  foule  disease,  To 
keepe  it  from  divulging,  let's  it  feede  Euen  on  the  pith  of  life.  F. 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE  TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  353 

.  .  .  But,  like  the  owner  of  a  foul  disease,  To  keep  it  from  divulg- 
ing, let  it  feed  Even  on  the  pith  of  life.  C.  "  let "  after  the  Quar- 
tos; the  ist,  3d,  and 4th,  Folios  read  "let's,"  the  2d  reads,  "lets." 
In  the  reading  both  of  the  Quartos  and  of  the  Folios,  the  com- 
parison is  somewhat  mixed  with  the  leading  thought.  In  the  F. 
reading,  "  it "  in  "  To  keep  it  from  divulging,"  and  in  "  lets  // 
feed  Even  on  the  pith  of  life,"  properly  refers  to  "  foul  disease  "  ; 
but  in  the  C.  reading,  it  would  seem  to  refer,  rather  incongruously, 
to  "  love."  The  meaning,  however,  is  perfectly  plain,  to  which 
the  reading  of  the  F.  comes  nearest :  "  We  would  not  understand 
what  was  most  fit,  but  [were]  like  the  owner  of  a  foul  disease, 
[that,]  to  keep  it  from  divulging,  lets  it  feed  even  on  the  pith  of 
life."  The  application  of  the  comparison  is  left  mental. 

4.  2.  12,  13.  Besides,  to  be  demanded  of  a  Spundge,what  rep- 
lication should  be  made  by  the  Sonne  of  a  King  F.  Besides,  to 
be  demanded  of  a  sponge  !  what  replication  should  be  made  by 
the  son  of  a  king?  C.  The  !  of  the  C.  is  after  Steevens,  who  added 
also  a  dash.  The  Quartos  and  Folios  have  all  a  comma  after 
"  sponge,"  which  is,  no  doubt,  right.  The  sentence  is  not  meant 
to  be  exclamatory,  as  the  pointing  of  the  C.  makes  it ;  "  to  be 
demanded  of"="in  being  demanded  by."  The  modern  Eng- 
lish of  the  whole  sentence  would  be,  "  in  being  demanded  by  a 
sponge,  what  reply  should  be  made  by  the  son  of  a  king?"  In 
regard  to  the  force  of  "to"  before,  and  of  "of"  after,  "be  de- 
manded," see  §§356  and  170,  respectively,  of  Abbott's  "Shake- 
spearian Grammar,"  rev.  and  enl.  ed.  pp.  256  and  112. 

4.  3.  19.     At  Supper?  F.     At  Supper  !  C. 

4.  3.  44.  Th'  Associates  tend,  and  euery  thing  at  bent  For  Eng- 
land. F.  and  everything  is  bent  For  England.  C.  "at  bent"  is 
the  more  forcible,  expressing,  as  it  does,  the  suspended  readiness 
indicated  by  what  precedes,  "  the  bark  is  ready,"  "  the  wind  at 
help,"  "  th'  associates  tend." 

SCENE  v.  Elsinore.  A  room  in  the  castle.  Enter  QUEEN, 
HORATIO,  and  a  Gentleman.  C.  the  numbering  of  the  Scene,  after 
Pope,  the  Scene,  after  Capell,  the  Enter  after  Pope.  The  F., 


354  JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  OP  HAMLET. 

without  any  designation  of  Scene,  has  the  stage-direction,  Enter 
Queene  and  Horatio.  The  2d  and  4th  speeches  of  the  Scene,  in 
reply  to  the  ist  and  3d,  which  are  spoken  by  the  Queen,  are 
given  by  the  C,  after  the  Quartos,  to  the  Gentleman.  It  would 
appear  that  the  Gentleman  was  afterwards  dispensed  with  as  a 
superfluity,  and  his  speeches  given  to  Horatio.  Lines  14-16, 
which  are  given  in  the  Quartos  to  Horatio,  are,  in  the  F.,  given, 
more  appropriately,  to  the  Queen,  along  with  the  four  following 
lines  which  are  no  doubt  meant  as  an  Aside,  and  are  so  designated 
by  the  C.  The  C.  gives  11.  14  and  15,  "  'Twere  good  she  were 
spoken  with,  for  she  may  strew  Dangerous  conjectures  in  ill-breed- 
ing minds,"  to  Horatio,  and  begins  the  Queen's  speech  with  "  Let 
her  come  in."  The  whole  speech,  as  it  stands  in  the  F.,  is  as 
follows : 

"  Qu.   'Twere  good  she  were  spoken  with, 

For  she  may  strew  dangerous  conjectures 

In  ill  breeding  minds.     Let  her  come  in. 

To  my  sicke  soule  (as  sinnes  true  Nature  is) 

Each  toy  seemes  Prologue,  to  some  great  amisse, 

So  full  of  Artlesse  iealousie  is  guilt, 

It  spill's  it  selfe,  in  fearing  to  be  spilt." 

It  would  be  better  to  regard  the  whole  speech  as  an  Aside, 
except  "  Let  her  come  in." 

4.5.112,113.  Qu.  Calmely  good  Laertes.  Laer.  That  drop 
of  blood,  that  calmes  Proclaimes  me  Bastard  :  F.  That  drop  of 
blood  that's  calm  C.  after  Quartos.  The  F.  reading  is  the  better. 
Laertes  is  under  the  wildest  excitement,  with  not  a  calm  drop  of 
blood  in  his  veins,  and  when  the  Queen  entreats,  "  Calmly,  good 
Laertes,"  be,  or  become,  calm,  he  replies,  "  That  drop  of  blood 
that  calms,"  that  is,  that  grows  calm,  or,  will  calm,  "  proclaims 
me  bastard  ;  "  "  calms  "  and  "  proclaims  "  are  both  future  in  force. 

4.  5.  124.  Laer.  Where's  my  Father?  F.  Where  is  my 
father?  C. 

4.  5.  146.     And  am  most  sensible  in  greefe  for  it,  F.    sensibly  C. 

4.  5.  150.     Oh  heate  drie  vp  my  brains,  F.    C.  puts  a  (,)  after 


JOTTINGS  ON  THE   TEXT  OF  HAMLET.  355 

"  heat,"  converting  it  into  a  vocative,  and  "  drie  "  into  an  impera- 
tive. And  "  Oh  "  is  the  emotional  form. 

4.  5.  152.  By  Heauen,  thy  madnesse  shall  be  paid  by  waight, 
F.  with  weight,  C. 

4.  5.  160-162.  Ophe.  They  bore  him  bare  fac*d  on  the  JBeer, 
Hey  non  nony,  nony,  hey  nony :  And  on  his  graue  raines  many  a 
teare,  F.  And  in  his  grave  rain'd  many  a  tear,  —  C.  The  F. 
reading  is  more  significant :  They  bore  him  barefaced  on  the  bier, 
and  many  a  tear  [now]  rains  on  his  grave.  According  to  the  C. 
reading,  "  rain'd  "  is  used  transitively,  the  subject  being  "They," 
and  the  reference  is  to  the  shedding  of  tears  at  the  burial. 

4.  5.  196.     Do  you  see  this,  you  Gods?  F.     .  .  .   O  God?  C. 

4.  5.  197.  King.  Laertes  y  I  must  common  with  your  greefe, 
F.  commune  C. 

4.  7.  38.     From  Hamlet?  F.     From  Hamlet !  C. 

4.  7.  153-155.     therefore  this  Project  should  haue  a  backe  or 
second,  that  might  hold,  If  this  should  blast  in  proofe  :  F.    did 
blast  C. 

4.7.185.  Laer.  Alas  then,  is  she  drown'd  ?  Queen.  Drown'd, 
drown'd.  F.  Alas,  then  she  is  drown'd  !  Queen.  Drown'd, 
drown'd.  C.  It  would  appear  from  the  Queen's  reply,  that  Laertes's 
speech  must  have  been  meant  to  be  interrogative.  If  exclamatory, 
as  the  C.  makes  it,  after  Pope,  "  Alas,  then  she  is  drown'd  !  "  the 
iteration  thereupon  of  the  Queen,  "  Drown'd,  drown'd,"  is  almost 
ludicrous,  and  makes  one  feel  that  the  poor  girl  has  had  indeed, 
as  Laertes  says  in  the  next  speech,  "  too  much  of  water." 

5.  i.  76.     It  might  be  the  Pate  of  a  Polititian  which  this  Asse 
o'er  Offices  :  F.     The  old  lout  of  a  grave-digger,  in  the  discharge 
of  his  office,  lords  it  over  the  once  scheming  pate  of  the  state- 
official  who  felt  himself  able,  in  the  exercise  of  his  state-craft,  to 
circumvent  God  himself. 

which  this  ass  now  o'er-reaches ;  C.  "  o'er- reaches  "  is  used  with 
a  literal  reference  to  the  grave-digger,  and  a  metaphorical  reference 
to  the  circumventing  politician.  "  Office  "  is  used  as  a  verb  in 
Coriolanus,  5.  2.  59:  "you  shall  perceive  that  a  Jack  guardant 


356         JOTTINGS  ON  THE  TEXT  OF  HAMLET. 

cannot  office  me  from  my  son  Coriolanus  ;  "  and  in  All's  Well  that 
Ends  Well,  3.  2.  124  :  "  although  The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the 
house,  and  Angels  officed  all :  "  Knight  adopts  the  reading  of  the 
F.,  "  oer-offices ; "  and  it  is,  without  doubt,  the  more  expressive 
term  of  the  two. 

5.  i.  77.  one  that  could  circumuent  God,  F.  one  that  would 
C.  "  could  "  is  better,  referring  to  the  politician's  craftiness  in 
getting  the  better  of  others. 

5.  i.  93.  why  might  not  that  bee  the  Scull  of  a  Lawyer?  F. 
Why  may  C. 

5.1.  140.  hee  that  was  mad,  and  sent  into  England.  F.  he 
that  is  mad,  C.  "was"  suits  better  what  follows:  "Ham.  Ay, 
marry,  why  was  he  sent  into  England?  Clo.  Why,  because  he 
was  mad ; " 

5.  i.  169,  170.  This  same  Scull  Sir,  this  same  Scull  sir,  was 
Yoricks  Scull,  F.  The  C.,  after  the  Quartos,  gives  the  expression 
but  once.  The  repetition  in  the  F.,  serves  to  exhibit  the  grave- 
digger's  sense  of  his  official  importance  as  he  turns  the  skull  over 
in  his  hands. 

5.  i.  20 1.     Imperiall  Ctzsar,  F.     Imperious  Caesar,  C. 

5.  i.  206,  207.  Who  is  that  they  follow,  And  with  such  maimed 
rites?  This  doth  betoken  F.  who  is  this  they  follow?  And  with 
such  maimed  rites  ?  This  doth  betoken  C.  "  that "  is,  per  se, 
better  than  "  this,"  Hamlet  and  Horatio  being  supposed  to  be  at 
some  distance  from  the  procession  ;  and  then  "  this  "  occurring  in 
next  line,  referring  to  "  maimed  rites,"  adds  to  the  preferableness 
of  the  F.  reading. 

5.  i.  209.  Fore  do  it  owne  life;  F.  its  own  life;  C.  "it" 
should  be  retained  for  its  historical  significance.  All  the  Quartos 
and  the  2d  Folio  have  "  it  "  ;  the  6th  Quarto  has  "  its  "  and  the 
3d  and  4th  Folios  have  "  it's,"  this  neuter  gentive  form,  which 
had  been  for  some  time  struggling  for  admission  into  the  written 
language,  having,  at  the  dates  of  their  publication,  begun  to  be  in 
general  use.  But  Shakespeare  must  have  used  the  tentative  form 
"it." 


JOTTINGS   ON  THE    TEXT  Of  HAMLET.  3$? 

5.  i.  230.  What,  the  faire  Ophelia?  F.  What,  the  fair 
Ophelia  !  C. 

5.  i.  234.  I  thought  thy  Bride-bed  to  haue  deckt  (sweet  Maid) 
And  not  t'haue  strew'd  thy  Graue.  F.  And  not  have  C. 

5.  2.  224.  Who  does  it  then?  His  Madness?  IPt  be  so, 
Hamlet  is  of  the  Faction  that  is  wrong'd,  F.  Who  does  it  then  ? 
His  madness  :  C. 

5.  2.  284.  Come  for  the  third.  Laertes,  you  but  dally,  F. 
Come,  for  the  third,  Laertes  :  you  but  dally ;  C. 

The  2d  Scene  of  the  5th  Act,  is  less  correctly  printed  in  the  F. 
than  any  other  portion  of  the  play. 


358  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 


MISCELLANEOUS    NOTES. 

(CHIEFLY  IN  SUPPORT  OF  FIRST  FOLIO  READINGS.) 

THE  SPELLING  OF  THE  POET'S  NAME. 

IT  is  desirable  that  a  name  used  as  frequently  as  is  that  of 
Shakespeare,  at  the  present  day,  should  be  uniformly  spelt.  The 
three  forms  now  most  in  use,  or,  it  may  be  said,  exclusively  in  use, 
are  Shakespeare,  Shakspeare,  and  Shakspere.  The  tendency  seems 
to  be,  to  settle  upon  the  first  of  these,  though  the  New  Shak- 
spere Society,  of  London,  has  adopted  the  last.  The  authority 
of  the  original  editions  is  decidedly  in  favor  of  the  first. 

There  were  16  undoubted  plays  printed  in  quarto,  some  of 
them  more  than  once,  during  the  poet's  lifetime,  the  date  of  the 
first,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  being  1597,  and  that  of  the  last,  Pericles, 
being  1609.  The  tragedy  of  Othello  was  printed  in  quarto,  in 
1622,  six  years  after  the  poet's  death,  and  the  year  preceding  the 
publication  of  the  First  Folio.  Of  these  17  quarto  editions  of 
separate  plays,  some  were  printed  with,  and  some  without,  the 
author's  name.  But  on  all  the  .title-pages  where  it  appears,  it  is 
spelt,  with  but  two  exceptions,  Shakespeare  (the  two  parts  of  the 
name  being  sometimes  hyphened  and  sometimes  not).  The  ex- 
ceptions are,  Shakespere,  on  the  title-page  of  the  first  edition  of 
Love's  Labor's  Lost,  1598,  and  Shak-speare,  on  that  of  the  first 
edition  of  King  Lear,  1608.  In  the  first  edition  of  the  Sonnets, 
to  which  "A  Louers  complaint.  By  William  Shake-speare.",  is 
appended,  the  name  occurs  three  times,  being  spelt  each  time 
Shake-speare.  The  name  as  attached,  in  the  first  editions,  to  the 
two  dedicatory  letters  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  prefixed  to  the 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  359 

Venus  and  Adonis,  and  The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  (1593  and  1594,) 
the  only  letters  of  the  author  known  to  exist,  is  spelt  Shakespeare. 
These  are,  probably,  the  only  two  of  his  works  which  the  author 
himself  saw  through  the  press.  They  are  printed  with  remarkable 
accuracy.  The  author's  name  doesn't  appear  on  the  title-pages. 
In  1616,  the  year  of  the  author's  death,  The  Rape  of  Lucrece  was 
reissued,  with  his  name,  spelt  Shakespeare;  again,  in  1624,  with 
the  same  spelling  of  the  name.  The  Passionate  Pilgrirr  was  first 
printed  in  1599,  the  name  of  the  author  being  given  on  the  title- 
page,  as  W.  Shakespeare.  An  edition  of  the  Poems  was  issued  in 
1640,  with  "  Written  by  Wil.  Shake-speare.  Gent."  on  the  title-page. 

In  "The  Workes  of  Beniamin  Jonson,"  published  in  folio,  1616, 
the  name  appears  in  the  list  of  "  the  principall  Comoedians  "  who 
acted  in  "  Euery  Man  in  his  Humour"  (p.  72),  and  in  the  list  of 
"the  principall  Tragoedians,"  who  acted  in  "  Seianvs  his  Fall" 
(p.  438).  In  the  first,  the  name  is  given,  "Will.  Shakespeare," 
and  in  the  second,  "  Will.  Shake-Speare." 

The  first  edition  of  the  collected  Plays,  known  as  the  First 
Folio,  was  published  in  1623.  The  editors  were  John  Heminge 
and  Henry  Condell,  who  had  been  associated  professionally  with 
Shakespeare  for  twenty  years  or  more.  In  this  first  edition,  the 
name  of  Shakespeare  appears,  altogether,  19  times  :  once,  in  Ben 
Jonson's  lines  "To  the  Reader,"  once,  on  the  title-page,  twice  in 
"The  Epistle  Dedicatorie,"  13  times  in  the  Verses  to  his  Memory, 
by  Ben  Jonson,  Hugh  Holland,  L.  Digges,  and  I.  M.,  once  in  the 
title  repeated  over  the  List  of  Names  of  the  principal  Actors,  and 
once  in  the  List,  and  it  is  invariably  spelt  Shakespeare. 

As  to  the  spelling  adopted  by  the  New  Shakspere  Society, 
Dr.  Furnivall  remarks  (Prospectus,  p.  5,  note  i)  :  "This  spelling 
...  is  taken  from  the  only  unquestionably  genuine  signatures  of  his 
that  we  possess  —  the  three  in  his  will,  and  the  two  in  his  Stratford 
conveyance  and  mortgage.  None  of  these  signatures  have  an  e 
after  the  k,  four  have  no  a  after  the  first  e;  the  fifth  I  read  eere" 

In  Ingleby's  "  Shakespeare's  Centurie  of  Prayse,"  which  con- 
tains, exclusive  of  documentary  notices,  all  the  known  allusions  to 


360  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

Shakespeare,  in  the  original  spellings,  from  1592,  when  he  was  28 
years  of  age,  to  1693,  that  is,  77  years  after  his  death,  the  name  is 
spelt  Shakespeare,  153  times;  Shakespear,  96  times;  Shakspeare, 
9  times ;  Shakspear,  3  times ;  Shakespeere,  twice ;  Shackspeer, 
twice  ;  Shakspeer,  once  ;  Shack-Spear,  once  ;  Shakspere,  once  ; 
Shacksperus  (in  a  Latin  Tractatulus),  twice;  and  Shakesphear 
(evidently  advisedly,  quasi  Shake-sphere),  twice.  The  form 
Shakespeare  is,  therefore,  considerably  in  the  majority  over  all  the 
other  forms,  and  is  used,  too,  by  the  best  writers.  And  this  form 
is  chiefly  used  in  the  more  important  modern  editions,  —  English, 
German,  and  American, —  of  the  poet's  works,  and  in  Shakespearian 
literature  generally.  And  so  it  would  seem  best  to  conform  to  that 
spelling  of  the  poet's  name  which  has  the  greater  weight  of  au- 
thority on  its  side. 

"  BAYTED  LIKE  EAGLES." 

"  All  furnisht,  all  in  Armes, 
All  plumM  like  Estridges,  that  with  the  Winde 
Bayted  like  Eagles,  hauing  lately  bath'd, 
Glittering  in  Golden  Coates,  like  Images, 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  Moneth  of  May, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  Sunne  at  Mid-summer, 
Wanton  as  youthfull  Goates,  wilde  as  young  Bulls. 
I  saw  young  Harry  with  his  Beuer  on, 
His  Gushes  on  his  thighes,  gallantly  arm'd, 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feathered  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  Seat, 
As  if  an  Angell  dropt  downe  from  the  Clouds, 
To  turne  and  winde  a  fierie  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  World  with  Noble  Horsemanship." 

—  i  Henry  IV.  4.  i.  97-110. 

1.  98,  that  with~\  that  wing  Rowe.  and  with  Hanmer.  that 
whisk  Tyrwhitt  conj.  wind~\  windarefann'dKeightleycon}. 

98,  99.  plumed .  .  .  Winde  Bayted~\  plum'd  !  .  .  .  wind  Bated: 
Johnson  conj. 

99  Baited-}  Qi  Q2  Q3  Q4  F3  F4.     Bayted^  Q6  Fi  Q7  Q8 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  361 

F2.     Baiting  Hanmer.     Bated  Malone. —  Var.  Lect.,  as  given  in 
"  Cambridge  "  ed. 

' '  All  plum'd  like  estridges  that  wing  the  wind ; 
Bated  like  eagles  having  lately  bath'd ;  "  —  Third  Variorum  text. 

The  "  Cambridge  "  editors,  in  their  note,  say,  "  We  leave  this 
obscure  passage  as  it  stands  in  the  old  copies.  Possibly,  as 
Steevens  suggested,  a  line  has  dropped  out  after  wind.  The 
phrase  '  wing  the  wind '  seems  to  apply  to  ostriches  (for  such  is 
unquestionably  the  meaning  of '  estridges  ')  less  than  to  any  other 
birds " 

Malone,  agreeing  with  Steevens  that  a  line  might  have  been 
lost,  suggested  the  following : 

"  All  plum'd  like  estridges,  that  with  the  wind 
Run  on,  in  gallant  trim  they  now  advance : 
Bated  like  eagles,  etc." 

The  whole  difficulty  which  the  passage  presents,  as  the  many 
notes  written  on  it,  show,  centres  in  "  Bay  ted."  To  bait  or  bate 
means,  as  Dr.  Schmidt  defines  it,  "  to  flap  the  wings,  to  flutter  (a 
term  in  falconry)  :  "  Fr.  battre,  Lat.  batuere. 

If  "  Bayted  "  is  understood  as  a  past  participle,  the  relative 
"  that "  is  left  without  a  verb ;  if  it  is  understood  as  a  verb,  the 
tense  presents  a  difficulty  —  it  should  properly  be  present  tense. 

As  all  the  original  editions  agree  in  the  word,  from  the  ist 
Quarto  to  the  4th  Folio,  inclusive,  the  only  difference  being,  as 
noted  above,  in  the  two  spellings,  "  baited  "  and  "  bayted,"  I  feel 
quite  certain  that  the  word  was  originally  written  as  the  ear  took 
it  in,  and  that  it  represents  "bait  it,"  the  "it  "  being  used,  as  it 
frequently  was,  indefinitely,  and  with  an  enlivening  effect,  after  the 
intransitive  verb. 

See  Abbott's  "  Shakespearian  Grammar,"  rev.  and  enl.  ed.  p. 
150,  §  226;  Hales's  "Longer  English  Poems,"  Notes,  p.  236; 
Schmidt's  "Shakespeare- Lexicon,"  s.v.  "it." 

The  meaning  therefore  is,  "  all  plumed  like  ostriches,  that  run 
with,  or  before,  the  wind,  flapping  their  wings  (remigio  alarum) 


362  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

like  newly-bathed  eagles."  Steevens,  in  his  note  on  the  passage, 
says,  "  They  (ostriches)  are  generally  hunted  on  horseback,  and  the 
art  of  the  hunter  is  to  turn  them  from  the  gale,  by  the  help  of  which 
they  are  too  fleet  for  the  swiftest  horse  to  keep  up  with  them." 

I  suspect,  too,  that  "  vaulted,"  1.  107,  represents  "  vault  it,"  to 
be  construed  with  the  infinitive  "  rise  "  after  "  saw."  Malone 
suggests  this,  and  it  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  he  didn't  see 
the  other  ear-word,  "  bayted." 

"AN  ANTHONY  IT  WAS." 

In  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  5.  2.  86-88,  Cleopatra  says  of  An- 
tony: 

"  For  his  Bounty, 

There  was  no  winter  in't.     An  Anthony  it  was, 
That  grew  the  more  by  reaping :  " 

This  is  the  reading  of  the  First  Folio,  1623,  in  which  the  Tragedy, 
so  far  as  is  known,  appeared  for  the  first  time.  The  name  of 
Antony  is  spelt  in  the  title  and  throughout  the  Play,  Anthony. 
The  "  Cambridge"  editors  adopt  Theobald's  "emendation,"  "an 
autumn  'twas." 

If  "  An  Anthony  it  was  "  is  not  right,  "  an  autumn  'twas  "  is  cer- 
tainly wrong.  It  is  too  tame  for  the  intensely  impassioned  speech 
in  which  it  occurs,  or,  rather,  into  which  it  has  been  introduced  by 
the  editors.  Again,  if  "  autumn  "  could,  by  metonymy,  be  wrenched 
to  mean  the  crops  of  autumn,  it  could  hardly  be  said  that  an  au- 
tumn grows  the  more  by  reaping.  But  this  reading  of  Theobald 
has  been  silently  adopted  by  all  subsequent  editors,  without  any 
consideration  of  its  tameness  or  of  the  resultant  incongruity. 

I  think  the  Folio  is  right,  as  it  sometimes  is,  and  that  there  is 
a  quibble  in  the  speech,  that  has  been  overlooked.  It  is  a  patent 
fact  in  regard  to  the  manifold  and  multiform  quibbles  in  the  plays 
of  Shakespeare,  that  they  are  often  indulged  in  by  his  characters 
while  in  the  highest  intensity  of  mind  and  feeling.  The  poet  has 
been  blamed  for  this,  especially  by  the  critics  of  the  "  correct " 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  363 

school,  and  his  defenders  have  found  some  excuse  for  it  in  the 
general  quibbling  propensity  of  the  writers  of  his  time.  But  the 
best  excuse  for  it  is  that  it  is  true  to  nature,  although  I  would  not 
explain  it  on  the  theory  set  forth  by  Bucknill  in  his  "  Psychology 
of  Shakespeare,"  namely,  that  "when  the  mind  is  wrought  to  an  ex- 
cessive pitch  of  emotion,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  indicates 
some  lower  mode  of  mental  activity  as  the  one  thing  needful." 

To  return  now  to  the  passage  in  question  :  "  An  Anthony  it 
was,";  "it"  stands,  of  course,  for  "Bounty."  His  Bounty  was 
an  Anthony,  "  that  grew  the  more  by  reaping." 

Now,  could  not  the  "  less  Greek  "  which,  Ben  Jonson  tells  us, 
Shakespeare  possessed,  have  led  him  to  see  in  "Anthony"  the  word 
avOos  ?  and  to  quibble  on  the  word  as  meaning  a  flower  garden  ? 
His  bounty  had  no  winter  in  it ;  it  was  a  luxuriant,  ever-blooming 
flower  garden. 

"CENTER"  versus  "CINCTURE." 

"  Now  happy  he,  whose  cloake  and  center  can 
Hold  out  this  tempest." —  King  John,  4.  3.  155,  156. 

This  passage  is  contained  in  the  Bastard's  speech,  the  conclud- 
ing one  of  the  4th  Act,  in  which  he  predicts  the  many  calamities 
that  are  to  follow  the  violent  death  of  the  little  prince,  whose  body 
has  just  been  found  by  the  courtiers  outside  the  castle  walls,  from 
which  he  leapt  down  to  make  his  escape.  The  above  reading  is 
that  of  the  Folio  of  1623,  in  which  the  play  was  printed  for  the 
first  time.  Pope,  in  his  edition  of  Shakespeare,  not  understanding 
the  meaning  of  "  center  "  made  a  meaning,  as  he  frequently  did, 
and  changed  the  word  to  "cincture,"  supposing  the  word  as  it 
stands  in  the  Folio,  to  owe  its  form  to  the  French  ceinture.  This 
change  has  been  followed,  so  far  as  I  know,  by  all  subsequent 
editors,  not  excepting  Knight,  the  most  loyal  to  the  Folio,  and  the 
editors  of  the  "  Cambridge  Shakespeare,"  William  George  Clark 
and  William  Aldis  Wright ;  and  Aug.  Wilh.  Schlegel  translates  the 
passage :  "  Nun  ist  der  gliicklich,  dessen  Gurt  und  Mantel  Diesz 
Wetter  aushalt." 


364  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

I  claim  that  the  original  word  "  center,"  is  right,  and  I  should 
do  so,  even  if  there  were  no  confirmatory  uses  of  it  elsewhere  in 
the  Plays,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  is  Shakespearian,  while 
"  cincture,"  in  such  connection,  is  not.  The  sentence  is,  of 
course,  metaphorical,  and  it  would  not  be  in  the  poet's  manner 
to  speak  of  a  cloak  and  its  girdle,  or  a  coat  and  its  buttons,  or  a 
hat  and  its  securing  string,  holding  out  against  a  tempest.  His 
mind  was  always  too  full  and  too  vigorous,  to  move  in  that  way. 
But  all  a  priori  argument  can  be  dispensed  with  in  the  face  of 
other  and  similar  uses,  in  the  Plays  and  Sonnets,  of  the  word 
"  center."  For  literal  uses  of  the  word,  see  the  following  pas- 
sages, in  some  of  which  it  is  used  with  qualifications,  in  others, 
absolutely,  for  the  centre  of  the  earth,  etc.,  or  for  the  earth  as  the 
centre  around  which  the  planets  move,  according  to  the  Ptolemaic 
system  of  the  heavens:  M.  N.  D.  3.  2.  54;  W.  T.  2.  i.  102; 
Hen.  V.  i.  2.  210;  i  Hen.  VI.  2.  2.  6;  Rich.  III.  5.  2.  n; 
T.  &  C.  i.  3.  85;  3.  2.  186;  4.  2.  no;  T.  A.  4.  3.  12;  Ham.  2. 
2.  159;  metaphorically,  it  is  used  for  the  soul  or  the  indwelling 
spirit,  —  the  centre  of  the  earthly  body,  —  as  in  the  following 
passages : 

'•'•Rom.   Can  I  goe  forward  when  my  heart  is  here? 
Turne  back  dull  earth,  and  find  thy  Center  out." 

-R.  &  J.  2.  i.  2. 

This  seems  to  be  one  of  the  many  instances  of  Shakespeare's 
apparent  intuitive  feeling,  for  correcter  views  than  were  current  in 
his  day.  The  idea  suggested  is  of  the  earth — symbol  of  the 
earthly  body  —  at  its  aphelion,  or  the  point  of  its  orbit  most 
remote  from  the  sun,  returning  to  it  again  by  the  force  of  gravita- 
tion to  the  common  centre  of  gravity.  —  Singer  (2d  edition  1856), 
as  given  by  Furness  in  his  New  Varr.  ed.  of  R.  &  J. 

"  Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth."  —  Sonnet  146. 

In  the  following  passage  from  the  W.  T.  i.  2.  138,  "may't  be 
Affection?  thy  Intention  stabs  the  Center.",  the  word  is  generally 
understood  to  mean  the  soul ;  but  it  means  rather  the  centre  of 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  365 

the  thing  aimed  at.  The  punctuation  is  faulty  in  the  Folio. 
"  Affection  "  is  vocative.  Leontes  is  addressing  his  own  affection 
or  imagination  :  "  May  it  be,  Affection,"  (that)  thy  intention  (used 
in  literal  Latin  sense,)  stabs  the  centre,  intuitively  pierces  the  very 
heart,  hits  the  white,  touches  the  root  of  the  matter  ? 

To  return  now  to  the  passage  from  King  John.  The  Bastard's 
meaning  is,  that  such  dire  calamities  will  sweep  over  the  land  that 
they  will  not  only  act  disastrously  upon  the  outward  circumstances 
of  men's  lives,  but  will  penetrate  to  their  inmost  being,  and  happy 
he  who  can  stand  out  against  them. 

"MEANE  IT." 

"  Lor.     .  .  .  How  dost  thou  like  the  Lord  Bassiancfs  wife  ? 

lessi.   Past  all  expressing,  it  is  very  meete 
The  Lord  Bassanio  Hue  an  vpright  life 
For  hauing  such  a  blessing  in  his  Lady, 
He  findes  the  ioyes  of  heauen  heere  on  earth, 
And  if  on  earth  he  doe  not  meane  it,  it 
Is  reason  he  should  neuer  come  to  heauen?  " 

— The  Merchant  of  Venice,  3.  5.  77-83. 

The  last  two  lines  of  Jessica's  speech  read  in  the  "  Roberts 
Quarto"  of  1600,  .  .  .  "meane  it,  then  In"  .  .  .  and  in  the 
"Hayes  Quarto"  of  1600,  .  .  .  " meane  it,  it  In "  .  .  .  the  other 
Folios,  as  the  First,  the  3d  and  4th  Quartos,  ..."  meane  it,  In  " 
.  .  .  Pope,  not  understanding  "  mean  it,"  changed  it  to  "  merit 
it,"  in  his  edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  began  the  next  line  with 
"  In,"  and  his  reading  has  been  followed  by  a  number  of  promi- 
nent editors,  some  of  them  among  the  latest.  The  editors  of  the 
"  Cambridge  Shakespeare,"  in  their  note  on  the  passage,  in  the 
"Clarendon  Press  Series"  edition  of  the  Play,  1874,  pronounce 
the  Folio  reading  "  evidently  a  conjectural  emendation,"  and  add 
"  There  is  some  corruption  in  this  passage  for  which  no  satisfactory 
emendation  has  been  proposed.  That  of  Pope,  '  merit  it/  for 
1  mean  it,  then,'  is  perhaps  the  most  plausible.  '  Earn  it,  then,' 
or  '  merit  them,'  might  be  suggested.  But  we  rather  require  a 


366  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

word  with  the  sense  of  '  appreciate.' "  Dyce  reads,  after  Pope, 
..."  merit  it,  In  "  .  .  .  and  says  in  a  note,  "  So  Pope ;  and  so 
Walker,  except  that  he  reads  "Tfr  reason,'  etc.,  '  Crit.  Exam.,' 
etc.  Vol.  III.  p.  no,"  and  adds  "He  evidently  did  not  know 
that  Pope  had  anticipated  him  in  reading  'merit  it.'"  Hudson 
also  adopts  Pope's  reading.  Staunton  conjectured  "moan,  it  is 
In"  ... 

It  is  quite  apparent  that  all  to  whom  the  subject  has  presented 
a  difficulty  have  overlooked  the  force  of  "  mean,"  understanding 
it  in  the  usual  sense  of  "purpose,"  "intend."  But  "mean"  is 
the  noun  in  the  sense  of  middle  between  two  extremes,  as  in 
"golden  mean,"  (as  a  noun  it  occurs  in  M.  of  V.  i.  2.  8,  "it  is 
no  smal  happinesse  therefore  to  bee  seated  in  the  meane,")  and  in 
the  passage  before  us  is  used  as  a  verb  (in  the  Elizabethan  English, 
any  part  of  speech  was  freely  used  as  any  other  part  of  speech. 
See  Introduction  to  Abbott's  "Shakespearian  Grammar"),  and 
the  pronoun  "it"  is  used  indefinitely,  as  was  very  commonly 
done  after  intransitive  verbs,  and  especially  after  nouns  used  as 
verbs.  For  this  use  of  "  it,"  see  Abbott's  "  Shakespearian  Gram- 
mar," rev.  and  enl.  ed.  p.  150,  §  226.  See  also  Hales's  "Longer 
English  Poems,"  Notes,  p.  236,  and  Schmidt's  "  Shakespeare- 
Lexicon,"  s.v.  "it."  And  see,  for  numerous  examples  of  the  use 
of  nouns  as  verbs,  Appendix  to  Bartlett's  "  Familiar  Quotations," 
6th  ed.  1871,  p.  613.  Marlowe's  Plays  abound  with  nouns  used 
as  verbs  and  followed  by  the  indefinite  "it." 

The  passage  from  the  M.  of  V.  means,  then,  "it  is  very  meet 
the  Lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life,  for,  having  such  a  blessing 
in  his  lady,  he  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth ;  and  if  on 
earth  he  do  not  observe  a  mean  in  his  pleasures,  it  is  reason  that 
he  should  never  come  to  heaven." 

Clark  and  Wright,  though  they  see  a  difficulty  in  the  passage, 
and  consider  it  corrupt,  follow,  in  the  "  Cambridge  edition,"  the 
reading  of  the  "  Roberts  Quarto,"  ..."  mean  it,  then  In  "... 
Though  the  sense  is  the  same  as  in  the  Folio,  the  reading  of  the 
latter  shows  a  nice  revision,  as  by  the  substitution  of  "  it "  for 


'      OF.IW 

0NJVBBBITI 

MISCELLANEOUS 

"then,"  the  more   formal  conclusive  character  which  the  latter 
word  imparts  to  the  impression,  is  advantageously  got  rid  of. 

"AN  UNSTAINED  SHEPHERD  WITH  WISDOM." 

"  Perd.   O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  too  large  :  but  that  your  youth 
And  the  true  blood  which  peepes  fairely  through't, 
Do  plainly  giue  you  out  an  vnstain'd  Sphepherd  [sic] 
With  wisedome,  I  might  feare  (my  Doricles) 
You  woo'd  me  the  false  way." 

—  The  Winter's  Tale,  4.  4.  146-151. 

All  modern  editors  of  Shakespeare,  so  far  as  I  know,  pervert  the 
true  meaning  of  the  4th  and  5th  lines  of  this  passage,  by  changing 
the  punctuation  of  the  First  Folio :  that  is,  by  putting  a  comma 
after  "Shepherd,"  and  omitting  that  after  "wisdom,"  thus  con- 
necting the  phrase  "  With  wisdom,"  with  "  I  might  fear."  But  it 
is  properly,  as  indicated  by  the  Folio  punctuation,  connected  with 
"  unstain'd,"  the  meaning  being  "  a  shepherd  unstain'd  with  wis- 
dom," that  is,  an  unsophisticated  shepherd,  who,  according  to 
Perdita's  meaning,  says  what  he  thinks,  frankly,  and  without  re- 
serve, and  also  without  flattery.  This  construction  had  its  origin 
in  the  inflected  period  of  the  language.  For  example,  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  version  of  John,  Chap.  I.  v.  9,  reads :  "  S6th  Le6ht  wses, 
thset  onlyht  aelcne  cumendne  man  on  thysne  middan-eard,"  that 
is,  "  True  light  [it]  was,  that  lighteth  each  coming  man  into  this 
mid-earth,"  instead  of  "  each  man  coming  into  this  mid-earth." 

In  present  English,  whose  syntax  is  almost  wholly  logical,  and, 
consequently,  positional,  when  a  participle  or  adjective  qualifies  a 
noun,  and  is  itself  qualified  by  a  phrase,  it  is  placed  after  the  noun 
in  order  to  bring  it  immediately  before  the  phrase  which  qualifies 
it,  and  to  the  preposition  of  which  it  is  the  antecedent  term. 

For  numerous  examples,  both  from  Shakespeare  and  other  au- 
thors, of  the  construction  in  the  above  passage  from  The  Winter's 
Tale,  see  Abbott's  "  Shakespearian  Grammar,"  §  419  a. 

Professor  Child,  in  his  "  Observations  on  the  Language  of  Chau- 


368  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

cer,"  §  no,  notes  the  following  examples  :  .  .  .  "whan  these  tres- 
pasours  and  repentynge  folk  of  here  folies  .  .  .  hadden  herd 
what  the  messangeres  sayden,"  .  .  .  C.  T.  "Melibeus,"  Harl.  text, 
3d  par.  from  end  ;  i.e.,  folk  repenting  of  their  follies  ;  .  .  .  "  doth 
digne  fruyt  of  penitence,"  .  .  .  C.  T.,  "The  Persones  Tale,"  6th 
par.  from  beginning ;  i.e.,  fruit  digne  (worthy)  of  penitence  ;  "With 
kempe  heres  on  his  browes  stowte ; "  C.  T.,  2136;  i.e.,  with  hair 
combed  on  his  brows  ;  "  oure  grounde  litarge  eek  on  the  porfurye," 
C.  T.,  12,703  ;  i.e.,  litharge  ground  on  the  porphyry ;  so  in  Gower's 
C.  A.,  Pauli's  ed.,  V.  i.  p.  189,  "  o  dampned  man  to  helle,"  i.e.,  a 
man  dampned  (condemned)  to  hell. 

I  have  said  that  this  construction  had  its  origin  in  the  inflected 
period  of  the  language.  But  more  may  be  said  of  it.  The  writers 
of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  and  James,  and  this  is  especially  true  of 
Shakespeare,  wrote  more  synthetically  and  less  analytically,  wrote 
with  less  literary  consciousness,  than  it  is  now  the  custom  to  do, 
and  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  their  diction  can  be  explained  on 
this  ground. 

ABSORPTION  OF  COGNATES  IN  THE  FIRST  FOLIO. 

There  is  an  abundance  of  evidence  in  the  First  Folio  that  the 
poet,  or,  which  is  more  likely,  the  scribe  in  writing  from  dictation, 
wrote  by  ear,  and,  consequently,  omitted  to  represent  to  the  eye 
certain  elements  that  are  more  or  less  or  altogether  absorbed  in 
pronunciation.  William  Sidney  Walker,  in  his  work  on  Shake- 
speare's Versification,  notices  this  in  the  case  of  s,  but  it  does  not 
appear  that  he  carried  his  observations  beyond  the  sibilant.  Dr. 
George  Allen,  Greek  Professor  in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania, 
in  a  valuable  note  he  contributed  to  Horace  Howard  Furness's 
New  Variorum  edition  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  pp.  429-31,  cites 
entirely  confirmatory  examples  of  the  absorption  of  gutturals, 
nasals,  and  dentals,  especially  of  the  latter,  and  shows,  quite  con- 
clusively, that  "we  see  defects  in  the  original  text  where  none 
exist,  and  proceed  to  amend  them  by  thrusting  words  into  the 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  369 

supposed  gaps,  when  we  should  fully  meet  all  the  demands  even 
of  the  modern  eye  by  merely  indicating  [by  the  apostrophe]  the 
actual  presence  of  what  has  been  treated  as  absent." 

I  would  cite  the  following  from  a  very  large  number  of  such 
cases  I  have  noted  in  my  reading  of  the  First  Folio  text : 

"  better  I  were  not  yours 
Then  your  [=  yours]  so  branchless."  —  A.  &  C.  3.  4.  24. 

"  His  face  was  as  the'  Heau'ns,  and  therein  stucke 
A  Sunne  and  Moone,  which  kept  their  course  and  lighted 
The  little  o'  th'  earth  [=  O  o'  th'  earth]"  — A.  &  C.  5.  2.  81. 

"  But,  when  the  splitting  winde 
Makes  flexible  the  knees  of  knotted  Oakes, 
And  Flies  fled  [=Flies  Ve  fled]  vnder  shade,"  .  .  .  — T.  &  C.  i.  3.  51. 

The  following  all  occur  in  one  Scene  of  The  Winter's  Tale  : 

"  But  that  our  Feasts 

In  euery  Messe,  haue  folly ;  and  the  Feeders 
Digest  [=Digest  it]  with  a  Custome,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attyr'd  :  "  —  4.  4.  12. 

"  The  Mary-gold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  '  Sun  [=  with  the  Sun], 
And  with  him  rises,  weeping:"  —  4.  4.  105. 

Here  the  absorption  is  indicated  in  the  First  Folio  by  the  apos- 
trophe. 

"  Your  praises  are  too  large  :  but  that  your  youth 
And  the  true  blood  which  peepes  [—  peepes  so]  fairely  through't, 
Do  plainly  giue  you  out  an  vnstain'd  Sphepherd  [sic] 
With  wisedome,"  .  .  .  — 4.  4.  148. 

"  The  selfe-same  Sun,  that  shines  upon  his  Court, 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  Cottage,  but 
Lookes  on  alike  [=on  all  alike]."  —  4.  4.  457. 

"  She's  as  forward  of  her  Breeding,  as 

She  is  i'  th'  reare'  our  Birth  [^.reare  o'  our  Birth]."  —  4.  4.  592. 


3/0  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

Here  the  absorption  is  again  indicated  by  the  apostrophe. 

"  For  [= Forth]  this  time  Daughter, 
Be  somewhat  scanter  of  your  Maiden  presence;"  —  Ham.  i.  3.  120. 

"  Dis-mantle  you,  and  (as  you  can)  disliken 
The  truth  of  your  owne  seeming,  that  you  may 
(For  I  do  feare  eyes  ouer)  to  Ship-boord 
Get  vndescry'd."  — 4.  4.  668. 

*>.,  "  For  I  do  fear  eyes  overt,"  open  or  watchful. 
"  Over,"  followed  by  a  "  t,"  also  represents  "  overt,"  in  the  fol- 
lowing passage,  according  to  the  First  Folio : 

"  To  vouch  this,  is  no  proofe, 
Without  more  wider,  and  more  ouer  [=  overt]  Test 
Then  these  thin  habits,  and  poore  likely-hoods 
Of  moderne  seeming,  do  prefer  against  him." —  Oth.  i.  3.  107. 

i.e.,  without  more  open,  evident  test. 

In  the  first  citation,  the  "  s  "  of  "  yours  "  is  absorbed  in  the  fol- 
lowing "  s  "  ;  in  the  2d,  the  "  O  "  in  the  following  "  o'  "  ;  in  the 
3d,  the  "v"in  the  following  cognate  "f ";  in  the  4th,  the  "it" 
in  the  preceding  "t";  in  the  5th,  the  "th"  in  the  preceding 
"th";  in  the  6th,  the  "so"  in  the  preceding  "  s  ";  in  the  yth, 
the  "all"  in  the  following  "  al" ;  in  the  8th,  the  "o'  "  in  the 
following  "  ou  "  ;  in  the  pth,  the  "  th  "  in  the  following  "  th  "  ;  and 

in  the  loth  and  nth,  the  final  "t  "  of  "overt,"  in  the  following 
a  f  » 

These  examples,  and  I  have  noted  hundreds  of  others  equally 
conclusive,  will  suffice  to  illustrate  an  important  feature  of  the 
First  Folio  text. 

THE  ETHICAL  DATIVE  IN  SHAKESPEARE. 

The  idiom  familiar  to  classical  scholars,  known  as  Dativus  Eth- 
icus  or  Ethical  Dative,  is  of  most  common  occurrence,  in  English 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  371 

Literature,  in  the  Dramas  of  Shakespeare  and  of  his  contempora- 
ries. It  occurs  not  unfrequently  in  Anglo-Saxon,  Semi-Saxon,  and 
early  English,  and  it  crops  out  occasionally  in  the  literature  subse- 
quent to  the  Shakespearian  era,  even  down  to  the  present  day. 
Matzner  gives  examples  of  it  from  Bulwer's  "  Rienzi  "  and  Carlyle's 
"  Frederick  the  Great  "  ;  and  there  are  instances  of  it  in  the  novels 
of  George  Eliot,  and  in  the  poetry  of  Robert  Browning. 

The  susceptible  reader,  whenever  he  meets  with  it,  feels  at 
once  its  force,  as  an  enlivening  touch  to  the  expression  in  which  it 
occurs ;  but  its  rationale  he  would  be,  perhaps,  at  a  loss  to  set 
forth.  Matzner  in  his  "  Englische  Grammatik,"  2ter  Th.  p.  213, 
puts  it  quite  satisfactorily :  "  Dieser  ethische  Dativ  im  engeren 
Sinne  tritt  als  personliches  Fiirwort  der  ersten  oder  zweiten  Per- 
son auf,  wodurch  .die  vertrauliche,  gemiithliche  oder  lebhafte  Rede 
das  subjektive  Interesse  des  Sprechenden  oder  des  Angeredeten 
bei  der  Erwahnung  einer  Thatsache  hervorkehrt,  welche  nach 
ihrer  objektiven  Erscheinung  unabhangig  von  jenem  Interesse 
vollzogen  gedacht  wird." 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  Dictionary,  says  ot  the  ethical  dative  "  me," 
"  Me  is  sometimes  a  kind  of  ludicrous  expletive  " ;  and  "  It  is 
sometimes  used  ungrammatically  for  /;  as  mcthinks  "  !  The  lat- 
ter is,  of  course,  the  A.  S.  me  thincth  =  mihi  videtur,  it  seems  to 
me  ;  so,  methought,  A.  S.  me  thuhte,  //  seemed  to  me,  and  in  early 
English,  him  thought,  her  thought,  hem  thought,  it  seemed  to 
him,  her,  them.  Rossetti,  in  his  "  Blessed  Damosell,"  uses  "  Her 
seemed." 

Doctor  Schmidt,  in  his  " Shakespeare-Lexicon,"  s.vv.  "I"  and 
"  you,"  presents  quite  an  exhaustive  list  of  passages  in  which  the 
ethical  "  me  "  and  "  you  "  occur  in  Shakespeare  ;  and  s.v.  "  your," 
he  gives  numerous  examples  of  the  word  used  indefinitely,  that  is, 
"  not  with  reference  to  the  person  addressed,  but  to  what  is  known 
and  common,"  a  use  not  unlike  the  ethical ;  in  fact  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable from  it.  Two  or  three  examples  of  each  must  suffice 
here  : 

..."  he  steps  me  to  her  Trencher,  and  steales  her  Capons-leg : 


3/2  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

.  .  .  Hee  thrusts  me  himselfe  into  the  company  of  three  or  foure 
gentleman-like  dogs,  vnder  the  Duke's  table:  "  —  T.  G.  V.  4.  9. 
1 8.  [Said  by  Launce  of  his  dog.] 

"The  skilfull  shepheard  pil'd  me  certaine  wands,  And  .  .  . 
stucke  them  vp  before  the  fulsome  Ewes,"  .  .  . — M.  of  V.  i.  3.  85. 

"  Thou  art  like  one  of  these  fellowes,  that  when  he  enters  the 
confines  of  a  Tauerne,  claps  me  his  Sword  vpon  the  Table,  and 
sayes,  God  send  me  no  need  of  thee  : "  —  R.  &  J.  3.  i.  6. 

"  I  will  roare  you  as  gently  as  any  sucking  Doue ; "  —  M.  N.  D. 
i.  2.  84. 

"  He  be  sworne  'tis  true,  he  will  weepe  you  an  'twere  a  man 
borne  in  Aprill."  — T.  &  C.  i.  2.  188. 

..."  he  will  last  you  some  eight  yeare,  or  nine  yeare.  A  Tan- 
ner will  last  you  nine  yeare."  —  Ham.  5.  i.  183. 

"  Your  Serpent  of  Egypt,  is  bred  now  of  your  mud  by  the  opera- 
tion of  your  Sun  :  so  is  your  Crocodile."  —  A.  &  C.  2.  7.  29-30. 

"I  will  discharge  it,  in  either  your  straw-colour  beard,  your 
orange  tawnie  beard,  your  purple  in  graine  beard,  or  your  French 
crowne  colour'd  beard,  your  perfect  yellow."  —  M.  N.  D.  i.  2.  95. 

In  the  following  humorous  passage  from  the  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  A.  I.  Sc.  ii.  8  etseq.,  it  would  seem  that  the  use  of  the  ethical 
dative  was  already  beginning  to  come  to  the  consciousness  as  an 
odd  superfluity  in  speech ;  Petruchio  uses  "  me  "  ethically,  and 
his  man  Grumio  understands  it,  or  pretends  to  understand  it,  as 
pertaining  personally  to  his  master : 

"  Petr.  ...  I  trow  this  is  his  house  :  Heere  sirra  Grumio, 
Knocke  I  say.  Gru.  Knocke  sir?  whom  should  I  knocke?  Is 
there  any  man  ha's  rebus'd  your  worship  ?  Petr.  Villaine  I  say, 
Knocke  me  heere  soundly.  Gru.  Knocke  you  heere  sir?  Why 
sir,  what  am  I  sir,  that  I  should  knocke  you  heere  sir.  Petr. 
Villaine  I  say,  Knocke  me  at  this  gate,  And  rap  me  well,  or  He 
knocke  your  knaues  pate.  Gru.  My  Mr  is  growne  quarrelsome  : 
I  should  knocke  you  first,  And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by 
the  worst.  .  .  .  Enter  Hortensio.  Hor.  How  now,  what's  the 
matter?  .  Gru.  ...  He  bid  me  knocke  him,  and  rap  him 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  373 

soundly  sir.  .  .  .  Petr.  A  sencelesse  villaine  :  good  Hortensio,  I 
bad  the  rascall  knocke  vpon  your  gate,  And  could  not  get  him 
for  my  heart  to  do  it.  Gru.  Knocke  at  the  gate  ?  O  heauens : 
spake  you  not  these  words  plaine  ?  Sirra,  Knocke  me  heere : 
rappe  me  heere  :  knocke  me  well,  and  knocke  me  soundly  ?  And 
come  you  now  with  knocking  at  the  gate?  " 

From  a  large  number  of  examples  of  the  ethical  dative  I  have 
noted  in  the  dramatic  and  other  literature  of  the  Shakespearian  era, 
I  select  the  following  from  Marlowe,  as  being  quite  curious : 

"  I  went  me  home  to  his  house,  ...  I  ...  took  him  by  the 
leg,  and  never  rested  pulling  till  I  had  pulled  me  his  leg  quite  off;  " 
.  .  .  "  Doctor  Faustus,"  4.  6.  Cunningham's  ed.,  1870. 

"A  lofty  cedar-tree,  fair  flourishing, 
On  whose  top-branches  kingly  eagles  perch, 
And  by  the  bark  a  canker  creeps  me  up, 
And  gets  into  the  highest  bough  of  all." 

—  Edward  II.  2.  2. 

"  Even  now  as  I  came  home,  he  slipt  me  in, 
And  I  am  sure  he  is  with  Abigail." 

—  "Jew  of  Malta,"  2.  2.  331. 

"  With  that  hee  takes  me  the  pensill,  and  with  another  colour 
drew  within  the  same  line  a  smaller  than  it."  — "  Pliny's  Nat. 
Hist.,"  Holland's  transl.,  Book  xxxv.  p.  538,  ed.  of  1634. 

Abbott,  in  his  "Shakespearian  Grammar,"  does  not  seem  to 
recognize  an  exclusively  moral  use  of  "  me  "  and  "  you,"  but  en- 
deavors to  explain  them  always  on  a  logical  or  thought  basis.  He 
makes  no  allusion,  even,  to  the  dativus  ethicus  or  ethical  dative,  of 
the  grammars.  His  suggested  explanations  may  be  accepted  as 
covering  certain  cases  of  what  are  generally  considered  as  ethical, 
but  they  certainly  do  not  cover  them  all  nor  any  considerable  part 
of  them. 


374  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

RESPECTIVE  CONSTRUCTIONS  IN  SHAKESPEARE  AND  WRITERS 
OF  HIS  TIME. 

There  is  a  construction  of  language  much  affected  by  writers  of 
the  Shakespearian  era,  which  may  be  characterized  as  a  respective 
construction ;  that  is,  a  series  of  phrasal  adverbs  qualifies,  respec- 
tively, a  series  of  adjectives ;  a  series  of  adjectives  qualifies,  respec- 
tively, a  series  of  nouns  ;  a  series  of  verbs  is  governed,  respectively, 
by  a  series  of  subject-nouns  ;  a  series  of  object-nouns  complements, 
respectively,  a  series  of  verbs  ;  a  series  of  subject-nouns  or  object- 
nouns  governs,  respectively,  a  series  of  nouns  in  the  genitive  case ; 
a  relative  pronoun,  representing  two  or  more  antecedents,  governs 
verbs  referring,  respectively,  to  those  antecedents,  etc.,  etc.  The 
following  are  good  examples  : 

"  Faynt,  wearie,  sore,  emboyled,  grieve'd,  brent, 
With  heat,  toyle,  wounds,  armes,  smart,  and  inward  fire." 

—  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene,"  B.  I.  c.  xi.  St.  28, 11.  i,  2. 

That  is,  faint  with  heat,  weary  with  toil,  sore  with  wounds,  em- 
boiled  with  arms,  grieved  with  smart,  and  brent  [burnt]  with 
inward  fire. 

"  For  this,  this  head,  this  heart,  this  hand  and  sword, 
Contrives,  imagines,  fully  executes 
Matters  of  import  aimed  at  by  many, 
Yet  understood  by  none." 

—  Marlowe's  "  Massacre  at  Paris,"  i.  2. 

That  is,  this  head  contrives,  this  heart  imagines,  this  hand  and 
sword  fully  executes,  etc. 

"  And  he  that  shall  arrive  at  so  much  boldness, 
To  say  his  mistress'  eyes,  or  voice,  or  breath, 
Are  half  so  bright,  so  clear,  so  sweet  as  thine, 
Hath  told  the  world  enough  of  miracle." 

—  "  The  Traitor,"  by  Shirley. 

That  is,  his  mistress's  eyes  are  half  so  bright,  or  voice  so  clear, 
or  breath  so  sweet,  etc. 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  375 

"  Yet  will  I  weep,  vow,  pray  to  cruel  she : 
Flint,  frost,  disdain,  wears,  melts,  and  yields,  we  see." 

—  Daniel's  "  Sonnets  to  Delia,"  XL 

That  is,  flint  wears,  frost  melts,  and  disdain  yields,  etc. 

"  They  move  their  hands,  stedfast  their  feet  remain, 
Nor  blow  nor  foin,  they  struck  or  thrust  in  vain." 

—  Fairfax's  "Tasso,"  7.  55. 

That  is,  nor  blow  they  struck,  nor  foin  they  thrust,  in  vain. 

"Virtue,  beauty,  and  speech,  did  strike,  wound,  charm, 
My  heart,  eyes,  ears,  with  wonder,  love,  delight ;  " 

—  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

That  is,  Virtue  did  strike  my  heart  with  wonder,  beauty  did 
wound  my  eyes  with  love,  and  speech  did  charm  my  ears  with 
delight.  The  sonnet  from  which  these  two  verses  are  taken  ex- 
hibits this  trick  of  construction  throughout,  which,  when  carried 
to  such  an  extent,  becomes  mere  ingenious  trifling,  wholly  incon- 
sistent with  any  sincerity  of  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  poet. 

Shakespeare  occasionally  employs  this  respective  construction, 
as  he  does,  with  an  easy  success,  all  the  peculiarities,  affectations, 
and  euphuisms,  of  the  diction  of  his  time : 

"  If  you  can  looke  into  the  seedes  of  Time, 
And  say,  which  Graine  will  grow,  and  which  will  not, 
Speake  then  to  me,  who  neyther  begge,  nor  feare 
Your  fauors,  nor  your  hate."  —  Macbeth,  I.  3.  58-61. 

That  is,  who  neither  beg  your  favors  nor  fear  your  hate. 

"  though  I  with  Death,  and  with 
Reward,  did  threaten  and  encourage  him, 
Not  doing  it,  and  being  done  :  " 

—  Winter's  Tale,  3.  2.  164-166. 

That  is,  though  I  did  threaten  him  with  death,  and  encourage 
him  with  reward,  etc. 


376  MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES. 

"  Sometime  a  horse  He  be,  sometime  a  hound : 
A  hogge,  a  headlesse  beare,  sometime  a  fire, 
And  neigh,  and  barke,  and  grunt,  and  rore,  and  burne, 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  beare,  fire,  at  every  turne." 

—  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  3.  i.  111-114. 

That  is,  sometimes  a  horse  I'll  be,  and  neigh ;  sometimes  a 
hound,  and  bark ;  a  hog,  and  grunt ;  a  headless  bear,  and  roar ; 
sometimes  a  fire,  and  burn,  etc. 

"  The  time  was  once,  when  thou  vn-vrg'd  wouldst  vow, 
That  neuer  words  were  musicke  to  thine  eare, 
That  neuer  obiect  pleasing  in  thine  eye, 
That  neuer  touch  well  welcome  to  thy  hand, 
That  neuer  meat  sweet  sauour'd  in  thy  taste, 
Vnlesse  I  spake,  or  looked,  or  touched,  or  caru'd  to  thee." 

—  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  2.  2.  115-120. 

Here,  "  unless  I  spake  "  is  respective  to  the  2d  line  of  the  pas- 
sage, "(unless  I)  looked,"  to  the  3d,  "  (unless  I)  touched,"  to  the 
4th,  and  "  (unless  I)  carved  to  thee,"  to  the  5th. 

"and  teach  me  how 

To  name  the  bigger  Light,  and  how  the  lesse, 
That  burne  by  day,  and  night :  " 

—  The  Tempest,  i.  2.  334,  335. 

Here  the  two  phrasal  adverbs,  "  by  day "  and  "  (by)  night," 
qualify  "  burn,"  with  a  respective  reference  to  the  two  antecedents 
of  the  relative  "That,"  "the  bigger  light"  and  "the  less  (light)." 

"  So  Bees  with  smoake,  and  Doues  with  noysome  stench, 
Are  from  their  Hyues  and  Houses  driuen  away." 

—  i  Henry  VI.,  i.  5.  23,  24. 

That  is,  bees  are  driven  away  from  their  hives  with  smoke,  and 
doves,  from  their  houses,  with  noisome  stench. 

"  But  he  loues  Casar  best,  yet  he  loves  Anthony  : 
Hoo,  Hearts,  Tongues,  Figure[s], 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES.  377 

Scribes,  Bards,  Poets,  cannot 

Thinke  [,]  speake,  cast,  write,  sing,  number :  hoo, 

His  loue  to  Anthony"  —  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  3.  2.  15-18. 

That  is,  hearts  cannot  think,  tongues  speak,  figures  cast,  scribes 
write,  bards  sing,  poets  number. 

"  if  Knife,  Drugges,  Serpents  haue 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe." 

—  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  4.  15.  25,  26. 

Here,  "sting"  and  "operation"  are  inversely  respective  to 
"  drugs  "  and  "  serpents,"  the  meaning,  of  course,  being,  if  knife 
have  edge,  drugs  operation,  serpents  sting,  I  am  safe.  The  order 
of  both  series  of  nouns  was  determined  by  the  rhythm. 

"  O  what  a  Noble  minde  is  heere  oVe-throwne? 
The  Courtiers,  Soldiers,  Schollers :  Eye,  tongue,  sword." 

—  Hamlet,  3.  I.  158,  159. 

Here,  again,  "  tongue  "  and  "  sword  "  are  inversely  respective  to 
"  soldier's  "  and  "  scholar's,"  the  meaning  being,  "  courtier's  eye, 
soldier's  sword,  scholar's  tongue."  Either  the  words  "  soldier's  " 
and  "  scholar's,"  or  "  tongue  "  and  "sword,"  might  change  places, 
without  disturbing  the  rhythm.  But  Shakespeare  wrote  syntheti- 
cally, and  the  derangement  was  purely  accidental. 

"  They  are  apt  enough  to  dislocate  and  tear 
Thy  flesh  and  bones."  —  King  Lear,  4.  2.  65,  66. 

Here  "  flesh  "  and  "  bone's  "  are  inversely  respective  to  "  dislo- 
cate "  and  "  tear  "  :  to  dislocate  thy  bones  and  tear  thy  flesh. 

"  And  will  to  Eares  and  Tongues 
Be  Theame  and  hearing  euer." 

—  Cymbeline,  3.  i.  3,  4. 

"Theme"  and  "hearing"  are  inversely  respective  to  "ears" 
and  "  tongues." 


EXAMINATION   QUESTIONS. 


1.  Our  meagre  knowledge  of  Shakespeare's  personal  history,  how 
explained?    Comment  thereupon. 

2.  How  does  it  compare  with  our  knowledge  of  contemporary  drama- 
tists and  poets  ?    What  does  Halliwell-Phillipps  say  on  this  subject,  in 
his  "Outlines"? 

3.  Evidences  afforded  by  Dr.  Ingleby's  "Shakespeare's  Centurie  of 
Prayse,"  of  the  appreciation  of  Shakespeare  in  his  own  time  and  in  the 
subsequent  half-century  or  more. 

4.  What  higher  knowledge  can  we  have  of  the  man  Shakespeare, 
than  any  knowledge  whidi  might  have  been  delivered  to  us,  of  his 
outer  life? 

5.  How  may  the  Plays  be  said  to  be,  in  the  deepest  sense,  autobio- 
graphic in  their  character? 

6.  What  testimony  to  the  estimation  of  Shakespeare  is  afforded  by 
the  "  Palladis  Tamia  "  of  Francis  Meres  ? 

7.  When  was  the  "Palladis  Tamia"  published,  and  what  Plays  are 
mentioned  in  it? 

8.  Analyze,  and  trace  the  sequence  of  the  thought  of,  Ben  Jonson's 
lines,  in  the  First  Folio,  "  To  the  Memory  of  ...  Shakespeare :  and 
what  he  hath  left  us." 

9.  Sketch  the  life  and  the  personal  character  of  Ben  Jonson.     The 
evidence  we  have  of  the  sincerity  of  his  expressed  admiration  of  Shake- 
speare. 

10.  Comment  on  "He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time." 

11.  What  is  properly  meant  by  universality?    What  does  Ruskin 
say,  in  his  "  Modern  Painters,"  of  the  universality  of  great  authors  and 
painters  ? 

12.  Comment  on  the  opinion  expressed  by  Gerald  Massey,  in  his 
"  Secret  Drama  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,"  in  regard  to  the  contem- 
porary estimate  of  Shakespeare. 


fo  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

13.  Who  was  the  great  impersonator,  of  the  time,  of  the  leading 
characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  ? 

14.  Comment  on  the  idea  expanded  by  Whipple,  in  "  The  Literature 
of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth,"  that  "the  measure  of  a  man's  individuality  is 
his  creative  power." 

15.  The  favorableness  of  the  age  for  the  exercise  of  great  dramatic 
genius.     Expatiate  on  what  Rev.  James  Byrne  says  of  this. 

1 6.  The  part  played  by  the  circumstances  of  time  and  place,  in  the 
creative  activity  of  a  great  genius. 

17.  Comment  on  the  education  of  Shakespeare,  exhibited  by  the 
Plays,  as  distinguished  from  mere  scholarship.     Give  De  Quincey's 
definition  of  a  great  scholar. 

1 8.  Comment  on  the  passage  on  study,  in   Love's  Labor's  Lost, 
A.  I.  S.  i,  55-93. 

19.  What  makes  Shakespeare  the  greatest  of  the  world's  teachers? 

20.  Shakespeare's  knowledge  of  the  classical  unities  of  action,  time, 
and  place.     Which   of  these   can   alone  be  regarded  as   an   absolute 
dramatic-art  principle?     To  what  were  the  others  originally  due? 

21.  In  which  of  his  Plays  has  Shakespeare  strictly  observed  all  the 
unities? 

22.  How  are  the  unities  departed  from  in  "The   Suppliants"  of 
Euripides,  and  in  the  * '  Heautontimoroumenos  "  (the  Self-Tormentor) 
of  Terence? 

23.  What  is   the  period  of  time   covered  by  The   Tempest?    By 
the  Comedy  of  Errors?    Give  a  time-analysis  of  the  plots  of  these 
plays. 

24.  Give  the  periods  of  time  covered  by  the  several  plays  included 
in  "A  Time-Analysis  of  the  Plots  of  Shakspere's  Plays,"  by  P.  A. 
Daniel  (Transactions  of  the  New  Shakspere  Society,  1877-9.   Series  I. 
Part  II). 

25.  In  which  Play  has  Shakespeare  utterly  disregarded  the  unities 
in  an  actual  sense?     What  higher  unity  is  realized  in  this  Play?     Con- 
trast organic  and  mechanical  unity.     From  what  does  the  higher  vital 
unity  of  Shakespeare's  Plays  result? 

26.  Characterize  the  dramatic  time-scheme  which  has  been  shown  to 
be  present  in  the  Plays. 

27.  To  whom  were  the  discovery  and  exposition  of  this  time-scheme 
originally  due  ? 

28.  Which  of  the  two  was  the  earlier  discoverer?     In  what  work  did 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  381 

he  set  forth  the  scheme?     Where  was  the  other's  exposition  of  the 
scheme  published  ?  and  through  what  Plays  did  he  set  it  forth  ? 

29.  What  feature  of  the  Plays  contributes  to  the  dramatic  perspec- 
tive, and  constitutes  the  still  background  to  what  is  dramatized  ?     Give 
examples  of  this  feature,  in  addition  to  those  given  in  the  text. 

30.  By  whom  has  this  feature  been  specially  treated?    Present  it  in 
all  the  Plays  which  he  has  treated. 

31.  Comment  on  the  heterogeneous    character  of   the    Romantic 
Drama,  so  far  as  its  material  is  concerned,  and  on  its  unity  in  variety. 

32.  Comment  on  Shakespeare's  employment  of  Contrast.     Give  ex- 
amples of  it  from  various  plays. 

33.  Comment,  in  this  respect,  on  the  following  scenes  :  Henry  VIII. 
A.  V.  S.  3  ;  Romeo  and  Juliet,  A.  IV.  S.  5,  96  et  seq. ;  Macbeth,  A.  II. 
S.  3,  1-45  I  Hamlet,  A.  V.  S.  I ;  Othello,  A.  III.  S.  I ;  Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra, A.  V.  S.  2,  241-281.     Comment  on  other  scenes  of  your  own 
selection,  wherein  contrast  is  effectively  employed. 

34.  Comment  on  the  natural  evolution  of  Shakespeare's  dialogue ; 
on  Julius  Caesar,  A.  II.  S.  i,  86-112.    What  does  DeQuincey  say  of 
Shakespeare's  dialogue,  and  of  the  dialogue  of  the  French  and  the  Ital- 
ian Drama? 

35.  Comment  on  the  "Crossing  Speeches"  given  in  "The  Shake- 
speare's Key,"  by  Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  pp.  69-73. 

36.  What  appears  to  have  been  assumed  at  the  outset  of  the  Shake- 
speare-Bacon controversy  ? 

37.  What  had  learning  to  do,  or,  rather,  what  had  learning  not  to 
do,  with  the  composition  of  the  Plays  ? 

38.  Shakespeare's  learning  as  distinguished  from  his  knowledge  and 
wisdom.     His  direct  perception  of  truth.     Conditions  of  this  direct  per- 
ception.    Character  of  the  learning  which  the  Plays  exhibit.     The  an- 
achronisms.    The  jumble  of  times,  and  events,  and  persons,  exhibited 
in  The  Winter's  Tale.     The  ideal  unity  of  this  jumble.     What  charac- 
ters of  subsequently  remote  times  are  mentioned  in  Coriolanus?     Give 
other  anachronisms  of  your  own  noting. 

39.  What  evidence  is  there  in  the  works  of  Francis  Bacon  that  he  pos- 
sessed the  kind  of  powers  demanded  for  the  composition  of  the  Plays  ? 

40.  What  is  meant  by  the  artistic  physiology  of  human  passion? 

41.  What  is  meant  by  the  fatalism  of  passion? 

42.  Wherein  consists  the  moral  proportion  of  the  Plays?     To  what 
must  this  moral  proportion  have  been  due  ? 


382  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

43.  What  must  the  greatest  physiologist  of  human  passion,  as  the 
author  of  the  Plays  certainly  was,  himself  have  been? 

44.  To  what  do  the  Works  of  Francis  Bacon  bear  an  emphatic  tes- 
timony ? 

45.  Characterize  his  Essay,  "On  Love";  his  "  Translation  of  cer- 
tain Psalms  into  English  Verse."     What  Psalms  are  included?     When 
was  the  Translation  published,  and  what  was  Bacon's  age  at  the  time  ? 

46.  Give  the  title  of  the  First  Folio  edition  of  the  Plays.      Who 
engraved  the  portrait,  and  what  other  portraits  of  the  time  are  by  him  ? 
What  value  may  be  ascribed  to  Ben  Jonson's  lines  "  To  the  Reader," 
facing  the  title-page?     The  evidence  that  the  plate  on  which  the  por- 
trait was  engraved,  was  tampered  with  before  it  was  used  for  printing. 
What  of  the  proof-impression  contained  in  the  collection  of  rarities 
made  by  the  late  James  Orchard  Halliwell-Phillipps  ? 

47.  Sketch  the  lives  and  characters  of  the  dedicatees,  and  comment 
on  the  Dedication. 

48.  What  other  works  were  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke?  and 
to  what  do  all  the  dedications  bear  testimony?     Ben  Jonson's  dedica- 
tion of  his  "  Catiline  his  Conspiracy."     Chapman's  Sonnet  to  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke. 

49.  The   evidence   adduced   by   Charles  Armitage   Brown,   in  his 
"  Shakespeare's  Autobiographical   Poems,  being  his   Sonnets   clearly 
developed,"  that  the  dedicatee,  "Mr.  W.  H.,"  was  William  Herbert, 
Earl  of  Pembroke. 

50.  What  does  Hallam  say  of  Brown's  hypothesis,  in  his  "Intro- 
duction to  the  Literature  of  Europe  "  ? 

51.  Where  are  the  Sonnets  first  alluded  to,  and  in  what  terms? 

52.  What  do  we  know  of  the  lives  and  characters  of  the  editors  of 
the  First  Folio  ? 

53.  Comment  on  their  Address  "  To  the  great  Variety  of  Readers." 
What  internal  evidence  is  there  that  Ben  Jonson  had  a  hand  in  this 
Address?     What  does  he  say  in  his  "  Timber;  or,  Discoveries,"  as  to 
the  statement  of  the  Players,  that  Shakespeare  "  never  blotted  out  a 
line"? 

54.  Which  of  the  Plays  were  published  during  Shakespeare's  life- 
time?    How  are  they  alluded  to  in  the  Address  "  To  the  great  Variety 
of  Readers"? 

55.  Name  the  Plays  which  appeared  for  the  first  time,  so  far  as  is 
known,  in  the  First  Folio. 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  383 

56.  What  do  we  know  of  the  lives  and  characters  of  Hugh  Holland, 
Leonard  Digges,  and  I.  M.,  whose  commendatory  verses  follow  the 
Address?     Comment  on  the  verses. 

57.  What  evidence  is  afforded  that  the  monument  in  the  Stratford 
Church  was  erected  before  the  publication  of  the  First  Folio?     By 
whose  order  was  it,  without  question,  erected  ? 

58.  The  importance  of  determining  the  chronological  order  of  the 
Plays. 

59.  What  period  is  covered  by  Shakespeare's  authorship  ? 

60.  The  kinds  of  evidence  which  have  been  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  dates  of  the  composition  of  the  Plays. 

61.  What  was  done  by  Edmund  Malone,  in  the  last  century,  toward 
determining  the  chronology  of  the  Plays  ?     To  what  extent  did  he  take 
note  of  the  verse  test? 

62.  What  was  the  first  contribution  to  the  special  study  of  the  verse, 
as  a  chronological  test?    What  chronological  verse  characteristics  are 
therein  presented? 

63.  Characterize  the  blank  verse  of  Lord  Surrey's  translation  of  the 
2d  and  4th  Books  of  Virgil's  ^Eneid.     When  was  the  translation  pub- 
lished? 

64.  Characterize   the   blank  verse  of  the   Tragedy  of  Gorboduc. 
When  and  by  whom  was  it  written?    What  improvement  does  the 
verse  show  upon  Surrey's  ? 

65.  What  is  the  most  marked  characteristic  of  all  the  earlier  blank 
verse  in  the  language  ? 

66.  What  advance  does  Marlowe's  blank  verse  show  upon  all  that 
was  previously  produced?    Characterize  it  as  specially  as  you  can,  and 
read  examples  of  it  of  your  own  selection. 

67.  To  what  extent  does  Marlowe's  blank  verse  support  the  eulogies 
bestowed   upon  it  by  a  writer  in  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  Vol.  XV.  ? 
Comment  on  the  extract  given  in  the  text,  and  on  the  passages  the 
writer  selects  from  Doctor  Faustus,  Edward  the  Second,  Tamburlane, 
and  the  Jew  of  Malta. 

68.  To  what  extent  was  Shakespeare  indebted  for  his  verse,  to  his 
predecessors  and  contemporaries,  beyond  its  generic  form  ? 

69.  What  is  the  nature  of  the  general  development  of  Shakespeare's 
verse,  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest  period  of  his  authorship? 

70.  What  is  an  indispensable  condition  of  pause-melody? 

71.  Comment  on   the  pause-melody  of  Milton's  verse,   and  give 


384  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

numerous  examples,  other  than  those  given  from  Masson,  of  varied 
caesuras. 

72.  What  does  Cowper  say  of  variety  of  pause,  and  what  all-impor- 
tant thing  does  he  omit  to  say  ? 

73.  What  scheme  of  emphasis  melody  is  noticeable  in  the  verse  of 
Paradise  Lost?     Give  examples. 

74.  The  demands  of  the  most  effective  dramatic  movement  of  blank 
verse  as  contrasted  with  the  most  effective  epic  movement. 

75.  The   different  elocution  demanded  by  the  earliest  and  by  the 
latest  forms  of  Shakespeare's  verse.      What  change  must  have  been 
wrought,  along  with  the  change  in  the  verse,  in  the  stage-elocution  of 
the  time? 

76.  What  appears  to  have  been  the  style  of  Burbadge's  elocution? 

77.  Which  of  Shakespeare's  characters  did  he  impersonate,  accord- 
ing to  "  A  Funeral  Elegy  on  the  death  of ....  Richard  Burbadge "  ? 
What  is  said  of  this  Elegy  in  "  Shakespeare's  Centurie  of  Prayse"? 

78.  The  advantage  which  Shakespeare  and  Burbadge  must  have  de- 
rived from  each  other. 

79.  Define  the  terms,  Recitative  and  Spontaneous,  as  applied  to 
Shakespeare's  earlier  and  later  verse. 

80.  What  relation  has  the  use  of  Rhyme  to  the  chronology  of  the 
Plays? 

81.  The  rhymes  in  Love's   Labor's   Lost,  A   Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Richard  II. ;  and  in  Cymbeline,  Coriolanus, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  The  Tempest,  and  the  Winter's  Tale. 

82.  The  relation  of  the  place  of  a  pause  or  break  in  a  verse  (whether 
in  the  middle  or  at  the  end  of  a  foot)  to  the  current  of  the  feeling. 

83.  In  which  Plays  does  the  Recitative  form  of  verse  reach  its  high- 
est degree  of  freedom,  and  thus  realize  its  fullest  dramatic  capabilities? 

84.  What  are  the  most  obvious  characteristics  of  the  Spontaneous 
form  of  Shakespeare's  blank  verse  ? 

85.  By  what  means  is  the  metre,  in  the  Spontaneous  form,  more  or 
less  sunk?     Comment  at  length  on  these  means. 

86.  Give  examples  of  the  Spontaneous  form  of  verse,  in  which  the 
melody  fusion  is  reduced,  and  the  standard   measure  is  sunk  in  the 
varied  measures. 

87.  Comment  on  Shakespeare's  organic  use  of  extra  end-syllables. 
Cite  examples  of  their  organic  use,  other  than  those  given  in  the  text. 

88.  What  is  their  value,  in  Shakespeare's  Plays  as  a  chronological 


EXAMINATION   QUESTIONS.  385 

test?  Their  value  as  determining  the  joint  authorship  of  Henry  VIII. 
See  the  treatment  of  this  subject  in  the  Publications  of  the  New  Shak- 
spere  Society. 

89.  Comment  on  Shakespeare's   freedom   from  normal  restrictions, 
and  on  his  being,  more  or  less,  a  law  to  himself. 

90.  Fletcher's  use  of  extra  end-syllables.     Give  examples  from  his 
Plays  of  their  use  as  a  monotonous  mannerism. 

91.  What  does  Sir  Henry  Taylor  say  of  the  verse  of  the  Elizabethan 
era  (Correspondence,  edited  by  Dowden)  ? 

92.  Comment  on  Shakespeare's  distinctive  use  of  verse  and  prose. 
What  classes  of  character  speak  generally  in  prose? 

93.  What  development  is  shown  in  the  Plays,  of  Shakespeare's  sense 
of  the  peculiar  domains  of  verse  and  prose  ? 

94.  Give    examples   from    Richard    II.   and  other  early   Plays,   of 
speeches   in  verse   which,  later,  Shakespeare  would   have  written  in 
plain  prose. 

95.  Hamlet's  distinctive  use  of  verse  and  prose. 

96.  On  what  occasions  does  Falstaff  use  verse  ? 

97.  Comment  on  the  distinctive  use  of  verse  and  prose  in  the  3d 
Scene  of  the  ist  Act  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  and  in  the  3d  Scene 
of  the  ist  Act  of  Othello.      Give  other  examples  of  this  distinctive  use. 

98.  The  two  characteristics  of  legitimate  verse  by  which  it  is  es- 
pecially differentiated  from  prose.     Give  as  many  examples  of  these 
characteristics  as  you  can  note. 

99.  What  do  a  poet's  epithets  and  metaphors  reveal? 

100.  What  is  the  signification  of  the  transference  of  epithets,  from 
words    to  which   they  properly  belong   to   those   to   which   they  are 
logically  inapplicable?     Give  examples  from  Shakespeare  and  other 
poets. 

101.  Give  an  example,  and  comment  thereupon,  of  how  Shakespeare 
raised  the  prose  of  appropriated  material  into  glowing  and  luxuriant 
poetry. 

102.  Shakespeare's  prose  as  compared  with  that  of  Bacon's  Essays. 

103.  Comment  on  the  prose  of  the  2d  Scene  of  the  5th  Act  of  The 
Winter's  Tale. 

104.  The  distinctive  domains  of  the   Latin  and  the  Anglo-Saxon 
elements  of  the  English  Language,  as  defined  by  Thomas  De  Quincey. 
Cite  examples  from  Shakespeare  of  these  distinctive  domains. 

105.  The  large  Latin  element  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  what  it 


386  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

indicates.     What  does  Dryden  incorrectly  say  of  the  chronology  of 
this  Play? 

1 06.  The  monosyllabic  character  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  element  of  the 
English  language,  and  its   subserviency  to  the  expression  of  strong 
feeling  of  every  kind.     Give  examples  from   Shakespeare  and  other 
authors. 

107.  The  different  vowel  elements  attracted  to  themselves  by  differ- 
ent feelings. 

1 08.  The  part  played  by  the  abrupt  vowels  of  words  in  expressing 
the  more  violent  feelings  of  anger,  hate,  detestation,  scorn,  etc.     Give 
examples. 

109.  The  part  played  by  prolongable  vowels    in    expressing  the 
gentler  feelings  of  love,  or  admiration,  or  of  the  beautiful.     Give  ex- 
amples. 

no.  What  passage  in  King  Lear  would  serve  as  a  motto  to  Romeo 
and  Juliet?  or  what  passage  in  the  Sonnets  would  be  equally  appro- 
priate ? 

in.   How  is  love  represented  in  Romeo  and  Juliet? 

112.  Comment  on  the  Prologue  as  an  exposition  of  the  dramatic 
motive  of  the  Play.     Where  does  it  first  appear,  and  in  what  form? 
Where  does  it  first  appear  in  its  complete  form  ?    What  epithet  gives 
the  key-note  of  the  Play? 

113.  What  is  characteristic  of  all  the  opening  Scenes  of  Shake- 
speare's Plays? 

114.  What  interpretation  of  the  Play  does  the  opening  Scene  testify 
against? 

115.  State  at  length  the  dramatic  situation  and  the  dramatic  motive. 

1 1 6.  What  relation  has  Romeo's  first  love  to  the  subsequent  dramatic 
action  ?    Misinterpretation  of  this  first  love.     What  does  Ulrici  say  of 
it?    What  does  Kreyzig  say  of  it?    Mrs.  Jameson? 

117.  How  is  Shakespeare's  creative  power  shown  by  what  he  adopts 
from  his  originals  ?     How  is  it  shown  in  Romeo's  first  love  ? 

118.  What  old  English  poem  was  the  original  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
and  when  was  it  published? 

119.  In  what  two  important  particulars  has  Shakespeare  modified 
what  is  said  of  Romeo's  first  love,  in  the  original  poem?  and  what 
bearing  has  the  modification  upon  the  dramatic  motive? 

•  120.   Give  the  points  of  difference  in  the  presentation  of  Romeo's 
first  love,  in  the  poem  and  in  the  play. 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  387 

121.  What  has  Shakespeare  specially  emphasized  in  Romeo's  char- 
acter?   How  is  he  contrasted  with  Tybalt? 

122.  Juliet's  situation  and    surroundings   before  she    meets    with 
Romeo. 

123.  Comment  on  Juliet's  reply  to  her  mother,  in  regard  to  her  mar- 
rying Paris:  "  I'll  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move,"  and  «*  But  no 
more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye  than  your  consent  gives  strength  to 
make  it  fly."    What  is  indicated  by  these  speeches  ? 

124.  In  what  respect  do  Romeo  and  Juliet  differ,  in  their  first  love  for 
each  other? 

125.  What  modifications  of  the  relations  of  Romeo  and  Tybalt  in 
the  poem,  are  made  in  the  Play,  and  what  is  the  dramatic  motive  of 
these  modifications? 

126.  How  is  the  justification  of  Romeo's  slaying  of  Tybalt  enforced 
in  the  Play?    What  point  is  to  be  especially  noted  in  the  act  which 
proves  such  a  misfortune  to  Romeo?    Its  bearing  upon  the  dramatic 
motive. 

127.  Give  Halpin's   interpretation  of  "  runnaway's  eyes,"  and  of 
Juliet's  epithalamic  monologue  (Act  III.  S.  2). 

128.  Note  where  Juliet  passes  into  a  self-sustained,  heroic  woman- 
hood. 

129.  The  dramatic  purpose  of  Juliet's  dread  imaginings  before  tak- 
ing the  sleeping-potion.     Upon  what  does  a  dramatic  interest  in  the 
situation  depend?     What  does  Lord  Lytton  say  of  Miss  Anderson's 
acting  in  the  potion  scene  ? 

130.  Comment  on  the  4th  Scene  of  the  4th  Act,  as  exhibiting  Shake- 
speare's use  of  Contrast. 

131.  Note  the  point  where  Romeo  attains  to  self-poised,  self-reliant 
manhood. 

132.  What  support,  if  any,  does  the  Play  afford  to  the  charges  of 
rashness  made  against  Romeo  by  numerous  commentators  ?    Cite  some 
of  these  charges  from  English  and  German  commentators.     Show  how 
Romeo  is,  throughout  the  play,  protected  from  such  charges. 

133.  Comment  on  the  view  entertained  by  various  critics,  English, 
French,  and  German,  that  Friar  Laurence  voices  the  moral  of  the  Play ; 
and  on  the  view  that  the  tragic  consequences  of  the  loves  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  are  due  to  subjective  causes  (to  causes  existing  within  them- 
selves), rather  than  to  objective  causes  (to  causes  outside  of  themselves). 
What  does  the  Play  especially  emphasize?     How  should  the  prudential 


388  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

maxims  of  Friar  Laurence  be  taken?     What  does  Bodenstedt  say  of 
them,  in  the  Introduction  to  his  translation  of  Romeo  and  Juliet? 

134.  To  what  artistically  satisfying  end,  so  far  as  they  themselves  are 
concerned,  are  the  ardent  loves  of  Romeo   and  Juliet  dramatically 
brought? 

135.  Distinguish  Shakespeare's  moral  spirit  from  a  moralizing  spirit. 

136.  A  moralizing  spirit  as  contrary  to  a  true  artistic,  creative  spirit. 

137.  What  is  meant  by  poetic  justice  ?     How  did  the  playwrights  of 
the  Restoration  period  understand  it? 

138.  How  many  English  historical  Plays  did  Shakespeare  write,  and 
in  which  is  the  historical  connection  preserved  ?     How  is  the  break  in 
the  series  partly  supplied?     Which  two  may  be  regarded  as  the  Pro- 
logue and  the  Epilogue  to  the  series  ? 

139.  What  circumstances  favored  the  writing  of  English  historical 
Plays,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  ? 

140.  What  made  the  time,  in  its  general  character,  especially  favora- 
ble for  the  production  of  a  great  Drama  ? 

141.  When  was  King  John,  so  far  as  is  known,  first  published?     Ap- 
proximate date  of  its  composition. 

142.  What  may  be  said  to  be  the  informing  spirit  of  the  Play?     In 
what  speech  is  the  spirit  of  the  whole  Play  voiced? 

143.  Characterize  the  earlier  Play  of  "  The  Troublesome  Raigne  of 
John  King  of  England."     When  was  it  first  published?     The  attribu- 
tion of  its  authorship,  in  subsequent  editions,  to  Shakespeare,  how 
explained  ? 

144.  Characterize  this  earlier  Play,  in  regard  to  its  strong  partisan 
spirit.     Where  is  this  spirit  especially  shown?     What  must  have  se- 
cured for  the  Play,  a  great  popularity,  at  the  time  of  its  first  appearance  ? 
What  is  known  of  its  authorship  ? 

145.  What  were  Shakespeare's  obligations  to  the  Play?     Dr.  Ingle- 
by's  view. 

146.  Comment  on  the  violent  anti-papal  spirit  of  the  old  Play,  and 
on  the  entire  absence  of  religious  partisanship  in  Shakespeare's  Play. 
Does  such  absence  imply  religious  indifference  on  his  part?     What 
does  it  rather  bear  testimony  to  ? 

147.  The  relation  of  the  narrated  element  in  Shakespeare's  Play  to 
its  non-partisan  spirit. 

148.  On  what  unhistorical  assumptions  is  King  John  based?     Where 
did  Shakespeare  get  his  history  in  his  other  English  historical  Plays  ? 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  389 

149.  Comment  on  the  opening  scene  as  striking  the  key-note  of  the 
whole  action. 

150.  The  ignoring  of  authentic  history,  as  shown  in  the  characters  of 
Constance  and  Arthur.     The  bearing  of  their  characters,  as  given  in 
the  Play,  upon  the  dramatic  motive. 

151.  What  special  dramatic  purpose  is  served  by  the  beauty  of  per- 
son, and  the  sweetness  and  loveliness  of  character,  which  the  poet  has 
given  to  Arthur? 

152.  Comment  on  the  view  entertained  by  many  critics,  and  on  what 
has  especially,  but  unwarrantably,  favored  that  view,  that  personal  am- 
bition is  the  ruling  motive  of  Constance.     What  may  be  said  to  be  her 
ruling  motive  and  her  dominant  passion  ? 

153.  The  estimate  to  be  attached  to  the  opinions  which  characters, 
whether  hostile  or  not,  in  Shakespeare's  Plays,  express  of  each  other. 
The  reliableness  of  those  opinions  to  be  tested  as  in  real  life. 

154.  How  are  Elinor's  expressions  in  regard  to  Constance,  to  be 
taken? 

155.  What  does  Ulrici  say  of  Constance  and  Arthur?     Comment 
thereupon.     What  does  Gervinus  say  of  Constance?     Does  the  Play 
in  any  way  support  what  he  says  ?     How  would  the  artistic  symmetry 
and  the  moral  tone  of  the  Play  be  impaired  if  the  views  of  these  com- 
mentators were  correct? 

156.  How  do  the  unhistorical  assumptions  on  which  the  Play  is 
based,  exclude  the  idea  of  personal  ambition  on  the  part  of  Constance  ? 

157.  Comment  on  the  dramatic  situation  in  A.  III.  S.  I,  which  has 
been  led  up  to  by  the  marriage  of  the  Dauphin  and  Blanch. 

158.  Comment  on  Faulconbridge's  soliloquy  on  the  broken  faith  of 
the  two  kings,  and  on  "  commodity." 

159.  Comment  on  the  capture  of  Arthur  and  his  conveyance  to  Eng- 
land, as  the  turning-point  in  John's  fortunes. 

1 60.  The  current  of  fatalism  into  which  John  is  finally  borne. 

161.  Characterize  Faulconbridge  as  voicing  the  national  spirit  of  the 
Play. 

162.  The  non-recognition  of  Shakespeare's  moral  proportion,  on  the 
part  of  the  dramatists  and  dramatic  critics  of  the  Restoration  period. 
The  testimony  borne  by  the  rifacimenti  of  some  of  his  Plays,  per- 
petrated by  Dryden,  Davenant,  Tate,  et  al. 

163.  When  was  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  first  published?     Date  of 
its  composition.     State  of  the  text. 


390  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

164.  What  pun  does  Richard  Grant  White  see  in  the  title,  and  what 
is  its  relation  to  the  action  of  the  Play  ?     Ellis's  view  of  it,  in  his  Early 
English  Pronunciation.     Where  has  Shakespeare  repeated  the  pun  in 
the  Play  ?     In  what  other  Play  does  it  occur  ? 

165.  Contemporary  testimony  to   the  popularity  of  the   Play,  and 
also  to  that  of  other  Plays  of  Shakespeare   over  Ben  Jonson's  best 
plays. 

1 66.  Under  what  various  forms  is  the  story  found  on  which  the  Play 
is  based?    Which  appears  to  have  been  Shakespeare's  original? 

167.  How  is  the  essential  originality  of  a  Play  of  Shakespeare  espe- 
cially shown,  when  compared  with  the  original  story  on  which  it  was 
founded?     The  independent  principle  of  movement  shown  by  The 
Winter's  Tale,  when  compared  with  the  novel  on  which  it  was  based 
(Robert  Green's  "Pandosto,  or,  the  Triumph  of  Time"). 

1 68.  Which  characters  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  appear  to  have 
been  entirely  original  with  Shakespeare? 

169.  In  what  attitudes  toward  each  other  are  Benedick  and  Beatrice 
presented  in  the  opening  scene,  and  to  what  were  those  attitudes  pre- 
viously due  ? 

170.  In  what  earlier  Play  are  these  two  characters  faintly  sketched? 

171.  How  is  Beatrice  characterized  by  the  poet  Campbell  and  by 
Mrs.  Jameson?    What  of  the  imperious  character  attributed  to  her 
by  Mrs.  Jameson?    Comment  on  the  views  of  these  critics. 

172.  What  is  the  real  purpose  of  the  stratagem  practised  upon  the 
pair  by  their  friends,  and  how  has  this  stratagem  been  misunderstood 
by  some  critics  ? 

173.  What  do  the  soliloquies  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  after  the 
stratagem  has  been  practised  upon  each,  reveal  of  their  real  selves? 
What  essentially  constitutes  the  comedy  of  the  situation  ? 

174.  What  is  the  dramatic  problem  after  the  stratagem  has  been  suc- 
cessfully carried  out? 

175.  How  does  the  rejection  of  Hero  by  Claudio,  in  the  church, 
afterwards  contribute  to  the  solution  of  this  problem?    Comment  at 
length  on  the  art  with  which  Shakespeare  has  raised  Benedick  and 
Beatrice  to  the  height  required  for  a  mutual  avowal  of  love,  after  all 
that  has  passed  between  them. 

176.  Comment  on  the  part  played  by  Friar  Francis. 

177.  To  what  end  do  the  color  and  the  word  artist  employ,  the  one, 
physical  darkness,  and  the  other,  moral  darkness  ? 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  391 

178.  What  must  be  the  ultimate  end  of  all  true  art,  whatever  be  the 
material  employed  by  the  artist  ? 

179.  Comment  at  length  on  the  three  kinds  of  testimony  afforded 
by  the  Play,  corroborative  of  Hamlet's  sanity,  his  keen  intuition  and 
high  reasoning  powers. 

1 80.  What  is  involved  in  the  injunction  imposed  upon  Hamlet  by  the 
ghost  of  his  father,  to  "revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder." 

181.  What  is  the  subjective  theory  in  regard  to  Hamlet,  as  set  forth 
by  Goethe  and  by  Coleridge,  and  followed  by  most  of  the  subsequent 
critics  of  the  Play?    Give  summaries  of  the  interpretations  of  these 
two  critics. 

182.  What  dramatic  interest  could  there  be  in  Hamlet,  if  Coleridge's 
characterization  of  him  were  correct? 

183.  What  is  the  objective  theory  in  regard  to  Hamlet,  as  presented 
by  Klein,  and  afterwards  more  fully  developed  by  Werder?     By  what 
English  critic  was  this  theory  previously  indicated? 

184.  Give  a  summary  of  Werder's  interpretation,  so  far  as  it  is 
presented  in  the  extracts  from  his  "  Vorlesungen  liber  Shakespeare's 
Hamlet,"  given  in  Dr.  Furness's  New  Variorum  edition  of  Hamlet. 

185.  Up  to  what  point  is  Hamlet  solving  the  objective  problem,  and 
what  causes  the  action  of  the  drama  to  pass  into  the  hands  of  fate? 
Trace  the  current  of  fatalism  to  the  catastrophe. 

1 86.  What  increased  interest  is  imparted  to  the  subjective  Hamlet 
by  a  recognition  and  understanding  of  the  objective  problem?    What 
is  the  condition  of  a  dramatic  interest? 

187.  Approximate  date  of  the  composition  of  Macbeth,  how  deter- 
mined?    Relation  of  the  Play  to   the  accession  of  James  I.  to  the 
English  throne. 

1 88.  The  two  all-important  things  to  be  considered,  in  the  Tragedy. 

189.  How  is  the  agency  of  the  witches  to  be  understood;  in  other 
words,  is  the  power  of  the  "metaphysical"  agency  employed,  to  be 
understood  as  absolute  to  any  extent,  or  as  wholly  relative  ? 

190.  Give  the  views  of  Hazlitt,  Lamb,  Thomas  Whately,  and  others, 
as  to  their  agency.     The  inconsistency  of  these  views  with  a  true  dra- 
matic interest,  and  with  the  general  theory  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic 
art.     What  is  essential  to  a  dramatic  interest? 

191.  At  what  stage  in  the  evolution  of  a  great  passion  does  its 
fatalism  set  in,  in  all  Shakespeare's  tragedies? 

192.  Compare  the  weird  sisters  with  Milton's  Sin  and  Death. 


392  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

193.  Note  the  correspondences  which  distinguish  this  Play,  of  the 
natural  with  the  moral  world,  and  how  the  toning  of  the  play  is  largely 
induced  by  these  correspondences. 

194.  From  the  place  in  the  Play  the  speech  occupies,  what  moral 
significance  may  be  attached  to  "  The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some 
streaks  of  day"  (A.  III.  S.  i)  ? 

195.  What  does  Fanny  Kemble  say  of  lines  40-53  of  A.  III.  S.  3? 

196.  What  did  Shakespeare  mean  by  the  weird  sisters,  as  shown  in 
Lady  Macbeth's  soliloquy  (A.  I.  S.  5,  41-51)? 

197.  What  does  Gervinus  say  of  Shakespeare's  spirit-world?     What 
basis  has  this  opinion? 

198.  What  especially  rendered  Shakespeare  the  greatest  poet  of  the 
race  ? 

199.  Explain  "  So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen."     What  seems 
to  be  intimated  by  the  epithets  "  foul"  and  "  fair"? 

200.  To  what  was  the  establishment  of  the  relationship  between  the 
powers  of  evil  in  Macbeth's  soul  primarily  due  ? 

201 .  How  are  Macbeth  and  Banquo  dramatically  contrasted  in  their 
interview  with  the  witches  (A.  I.  S.  3)? 

202.  In  what  speech  of  Banquo  is  the  entire  moral  of  the  tragedy 
expressed  ? 

203.  Comment  on  Macbeth's  imaginative  temperament. 

204.  How  is  Lady  Macbeth's  characterization  of  her  husband,  after 
reading  his  letter  (A.  I.  S.  5),  to  be  taken? 

205.  What  is  the  true  import  of  Macbeth's  "  horrible  imaginings," 
and  of  what  Lady  Macbeth  misunderstands  as  ' '  compunctious  visitings 
of  nature  "  ? 

206.  What  revelation  does  Macbeth  make  of  himself,  in  his  soliloquy, 
"  If  it  were  done,  when  'tis  done  "  (A.  I.  S.  7)  ? 

207.  Summarize   Lady   Macbeth's   relations    to    Macbeth's   career. 
When  do  those  relations  cease,  and  what  are  the  consequences  to  her 
when  they  cease  ?     How  do  those  consequences  reflect  her  true  nature 
which  she  at  first  repressed  in  the  service  of  her  husband's  ambition  ? 
Comment  on  the  ist  Scene  of  the  5th  Act,  as  testifying  to  her  womanly 
nature. 

208.  What  does  the  Countess  of  Charlemont  say  of  the  "  cry  within 
of  women"  when   Lady   Macbeth   dies?     What   does   Dr.    Furnivall 
remark  on  her  view  of  Lady  Macbeth  ?     What  has  the  original  story  to 
do  with  the  interpretation  of  any  character  in  a  Play  of  Shakespeare? 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  393 

209.  The  date  of  the  composition  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra? 

210.  How  does  the  Play  rank  among  the  Plays  of  Shakespeare? 
How  does  Coleridge  characterize  it? 

211.  Why  should  the  Play  be  regarded  as  a  tragedy  rather  than  as  a 
politico-historical  play?  What  is  properly  an  historical  play?  and  what  is 
properly  a  tragedy?    How  should  Coriolanus,  for  example,  be  classed? 
What  is,  throughout,  its  dominant  interest? 

212.  How  does  Denton  J.  Snider  regard  the  Play  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra  ? 

213.  What  stage  in  his  development  had  Shakespeare  reached  when 
he  composed  the  Play? 

214.  Can  a  doctrinal  character  be  imputed  to  any  play  of  Shake- 
speare ? 

215.  In  what  way  can  a  great  work  of  art  be  said  to  teach  ? 

216.  What  is  meant  by  great  truths  being  held  in  solution  in  a  work 
of  art  ? 

217.  How  is  Shakespeare,  as  a  dramatist,  distinguished  from  all  the 
contemporary  dramatists  ? 

218.  What  is  meant  by  moral  proportion? 

219.  What  is  the  great  artistic  achievement  of  Shakespeare,  in  his 
tragic  masterpieces? 

220.  Why  can  the  critic,  with  philosophical  tendencies,  always  find 
the  doctrinal  in  a  great  work  of  art,  if  he  look  for  it  ? 

221.  Although  the  profoundest  abstract  principles  may  be  operative 
in  a  work  of  art,  is  it  the  aim  of  the  artist,  as  artist,  to  embody  these 
principles  ?    And  are  they  necessarily  in  his  intellectual  consciousness 
during  the  exercise  of  his  creative  power  ? 

222.  What  is  always  the  business  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  art? 

223.  In  what  high  sense  is  Shakespeare  a  moralist,  and  a  social  and 
political  philosopher? 

224.  What  does  Professor  Delius  seem  to  assume  in  regard  to  the 
character  of  the  Play  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  ? 

225.  What  is  the  dominant  interest  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  the  Play? 

226.  In  what  speech  is  the  key-note  of  the  Play  distinctly  struck? 

227.  Present  at  length  the  dramatic  situation  of  the   Play,  as  a 
tragedy. 

228.  What  passage  in  Hamlet  is  remarkably  illustrated  by  the  char- 
acter of  Antony  ? 


394  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

229.  What  does  Thomas  De  Quincey  say  of  Shakespeare's  insight, 
which  the  Romans  themselves  could  not  have  had,  into  the  possibili- 
ties of  Antony's  nature? 

230.  In  the  description  of  the  first  meeting  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
how  has  the  poet   impassioned   his  prose   original,  and  created  the 
atmosphere  in  which  the  passion-fated  pair  are  exhibited  ? 

231.  What  was  the  moral  problem  involved  in  the  dramatic  treat- 
ment of  the  theme  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra? 

232.  How  does  the  poet  avoid  any  perversion  of  the  moral  judg- 
ment? and,  further,  how  is  the  moral  judgment  stimulated  to  its  best 
activity? 

233.  Comment  at  length  on  the  narrated  element  of  the  Play  as 
bearing  on  its  perspective  and  on  its  moral  spirit  and  moral  propor- 
tion. 

234.  Comment  on  Skottowe's  remark  that  "  Shakespeare  has  not 
been  successful  in  conveying  an  idea  of  the  elegance  of  Cleopatra's 
mind."   Was  such  a  success  demanded  by  the  dramatic  motive  ?  rather, 
would  not  such  a  success  have  defeated  the  dramatic  motive  ? 

235.  Comment  on  what  Mrs.  Jameson  says  of  the  fascination  of 
Shakespeare's  Cleopatra. 

236.  What  does  Dryden  say  of  his  bringing  Cleopatra  and  Octavia 
together,  in  his  "  All  for  Love ;  or,  the  world  well  lost"  ? 

237.  Comment  on  Swinburne's  rapture  over  Shakespeare's  Cleopatra. 

238.  Comment  on  the  inevitable  subordination  of  Antony  to  Octa- 
vius. 

239.  Comment  on  the  dramatic  significance  of  the  Scene  on  Pom- 
pey's  Galley  (A.  II.  S.  7)  ;   and  on  the  Shakesperian  irony  which  it 
exhibits. 

240.  What  is   the   one  great   and    common   merit  of  all   Shake- 
speare's characters,  both  men  and  women?    What  does  Godwin  say 
of  this? 

241.  Comment  on  Antony's  speech  to  Octavius,  "  Be  a  child  o'  the 
time,"  and  Octavius's  reply,  "  Possess  it,  I'll  make  answer." 

242.  Comment  on  Octavius's  subsequent  speech,  '*  What  would  you 
more." 

243.  Comment  on  the  reconciliation  which  has  been   patched  up 
between  the  several  leading  actors  of  the  drama. 

244.  The  illustrations  which  Octavius  and  Antony  afford  of  Brutus's 
speech  in  Julius  Caesar  (A.  IV.  S.  3,  218-221). 


EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS.  395 

245.  Compare  the  situation  of   Octavia  with  that   of   Blanch  of 
Castile,  in  King  John. 

246.  How  is  Octavius's  consummate  skill  as  a  politician  especially 
shown  ? 

247.  Comment  on  the  speech  of  Enobarbus,   "  You  shall  find  the 
band   that  seems  to  tie  their  friendship  together  will  be  the  very 
strangler  of  their  amity." 

248.  Comment  on  Shakespeare's  dramatic  skill  in  placing  before  us 
an  impressive  personality,  by  a  few  slight  touches.     Illustrate  through 
Octavia,  and  Cordelia  in  King  Lear. 

249.  Comment  on  the  final  conflict  which  brings  the  historical  move- 
ment to  its  goal,  and  exhibits,  in  the  boldest  relief,  the  bondage  of 
Antony. 

250.  Comment  on  Antony's  love  for  Cleopatra,  as  the  mainspring  of 
his  being  (as  shown  in  A.  IV.),  and  on  Cleopatra's  love  (as  shown  in 
A.  V.).    What  does  Denton  J.  Snider  say  of  Cleopatra's  love,  after  the 
death  of  Antony  ? 

251.  Comment  on  the  merit  of  the  Folio's  readings  (in  some  cases 
punctuations),  of  the  following  passages  in  Hamlet,  as  compared  with 
the  readings  of  the  2d  Quarto,  or,  in  some  cases,  "emended"  read- 
ings given  in  modern  editions  : 

i.  2.  11;  1.2.76;  1.2.17051.2.191;  1.2.239;  i-3-io;  1-3- 
57;  1.3.109;  1.3.120;  1.3.127-131;  i.  5.  135-137;  I-  5-  154; 

I.  5.   157-160;    I.  5.  174;    2.2.   ISO,   l8l  ;    2.2.   183-185;    2.2.201  ;    2.2. 

381-383;  3-1-63;  3-1-72;  3-I-76;  3-1-97;  3-I-I58;  3-2.8; 
3.  2.  60-63;  3.  2.  73-75;  3-  2.  301-303;  3-  2.  329;  3.  2.  347,  348; 
3-  2.  354.355?  3-4-4;  4-  i-  i,  2;  4-  i-  19-23;  4-  2.  12,  13;  4-3-44; 
4.5.  112,  113;  4.5.  160-162;  4.  7.  185;  5.  i.  76;  5.  i.  77;  5.  i. 
169,  170. 

252.  Comment  on  the  use  of  the  interrogative  in  the  First  Folio,  and 
on  its  use  in  the  "  Cambridge  "  edition. 

253.  Explain  whatever  calls  for  explanation  in  the  following  passages 
in  Hamlet : 

i.  i.  42 :  Thou  art  a  scholar;  i.  i.  72:  So  nightly  toils  the  subject 
of  the  land,  i.  i.  94:  And  carriage  of  the  article  designed,  i.  2.  37  : 
more  than  the  scope  of  these  dilated  articles  allow,  i.  2.  147  :  or  ere 
i.  2.  182:  dearest  foe  i.  4.  9:  keeps  wassail,  and  the  swaggering  up- 
spring  reels ;  i.  5.  77  :  Unhousel'd,  disappointed,  unanel'd, 

254.  2.  i.  65 :  With  windlasses  and  with  assays  of  bias,    2.  2.  183 : 


396  EXAMINATION  QUESTIONS. 

being  a  good  kissing  carrion,  —  2.  2.  337  :  the  clown  shall  make  those 
laugh  whose  lungs  are  tickle  o'  the  sere;  2.  2.  354:  an  aery  of  chil- 
dren, little  eyases,  that  cry  out  on  the  top  of  question,  and  are  most 
tyrannically  clapped  for't,  2.2.  388  :  the  appurtenance  of  welcome  is 
fashion  and  ceremony :  let  me  comply  with  you  in  the  garb,  lest  my 
extent  to  the  players,  which,  I  tell  you,  must  show  fairly  outward, 
should  more  appear  like  entertainment  than  yours.  2.  2.  396:  I  am 
but  mad  north-north-west :  when  the  wind  is  southerly  I  know  a  hawk 
from  a  handsaw. 

255.  3.  2.  15  :  I  could  have  such  a  fellow  whipt  for  o'erdoing Terma- 
gant; it  out-Herods  Herod:     3.  2.  131 :  You  are  merry,  my  lord.  .  .  . 
Oh  God,  your  only  jigmaker.     3.  2.  136:  let  the  devil  wear  black,  for 
I'll  have  a  suit  of  sables.     3.  2.  286:  Would  not  this,  sir,  and  a  forest 
of  feathers  —  if  the  rest  of  my  fortunes  turn  Turk  with  me  —  with  two 
Provincial  roses  on  my  razed  shoes,  get  me  a  fellowship  in  a  cry  of 
players,  sir?     3.  3.  360 :  to  withdraw  with  you,  why  do  you  go  about  to 
recover  the  wind  of  me,  as  if  you  would  drive  me  into  a  toil?    3.  3. 
401:  They  fool  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent.     3.  4,  89:  such  black  and 
grained  spots  As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

256.  4.  3.  22 :  Your  worm  is  your  only  emperor  for  diet:     4.  5.  41 : 
'Well,  God  'ild  you !     They  say  the  owl  was  a  baker's  daughter.     Lord, 

we  know  what  we  are,  but  know  not  what  we  may  be.  4.  5.  83 :  we 
have  done  but  greenly,  In  huggermugger  to  inter  him  :  4.  5.  146 :  And 
like  the  kind  life-rendering  pelican,  Repast  them  with  my  blood.  4.  5. 
1 80:  There's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines:  there's  rue  for  you;  and 
here's  some  for  me :  we  may  call  it  herb-grace  o'  Sundays.  Oh,  you 
must  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference. 

257.  5.  i.  148:  How  absolute  the  knave  is!  we  must  speak  by  the 
card,  or  equivocation  will  undo  us.     5.  2.  5  :  methought  I  lay  Worse 
than  the  mutines  in  the  bilboes.     5.  2.  19 :  an  exact  command,  Larded 
with  many  several  sorts  of  reasons  Importing  Denmark's  health  and 
England's  too,     5.  2.  23  :  on  the  supervise,  no  leisure  bated,     5.  2,  30: 
Ere  I  could  make  a  prologue  to  my  brains,  They  had  begun  the  play  — 
5.  2.  39:  As  England  was  his  faithful  tributary,  As  love  between  them 
as  the  palm  should  flourish,  As  peace  should  still  her  wheaten  garland 
wear  And  stand  a  comma  'tween  their  amities,  And  many  such  like 
'  As  'es  of  great  charge, 

258.  Comment  on  the  spelling  of  the  poet's  name. 

259.  Comment  on  the  following  passages  :  I  Henry  IV.  4.  I.  97-1 10 ; 


EX  AM  IN  A  TION  Q  UES  TIONS. 


397 


Antony  and  Cleopatra,  5.  2.  86-88;  King  John,  4.  3.  155,  156.     The 
Merchant  of  Venice,  3.  5.  77-83  ;  The  Winter's  Tale,  4.  4.  146-151. 

260.  Comment  on  the  absorption  of  cognates  in  the  First  Folio ;  on 
the  ethical  dative;  on  respective  constructions  in  Shakespeare  and 
writers  of  his  time. 


THrs  BOOK 


OVERDUE. 


AND     TO    *,  00 


So  CNTS 

N 


ON    ru 

°N    THE    SEVENTH 


DAY 


1462 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


